


Risk It All

by blueorion



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Guns, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueorion/pseuds/blueorion
Summary: Ben Mitchell is one of the biggest mob bosses in London, poised to inherit the Mitchell empire.Callum Highway is the police officer determined to take him down.Tensions rise, loyalties will be tested, and there's no place for love in a war.
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 29
Kudos: 153





	1. a day's work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callum Highway is a police officer in search of something more.
> 
> Ben Mitchell is a mob boss looking for something that matters.
> 
> Time to go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! i fell headfirst into the ee fandom, and these two are just the best. i'm a sucker for any kind of crime au, and the characters fit perfectly into the story i wanted to write.
> 
> i'll try to update as often as i can, so if this fic is interesting to you, please let me know what you think!

The market bustles with activity as patrons weave around each other to reach the stalls of their choice, eager to view and purchase items. There’s no great sense of urgency, and the crowd moves with a relaxed rhythm as people take the time to chat whilst enjoying the fresh air.

It’s the perfect day, apparently, for a crime. 

Callum stands across from the accused, shoulders pulled back and one eyebrow raised in speculation. His pen hovers above his notepad, poised and ready to write. “Do you admit to the alleged crime?”

The apparent criminal is a boy with a messy head of curls and a bashful expression on his youthful face. He looks old enough to reject anyone referring to him as a child, yet too young to be a teenager. Callum notes the way he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, standing on legs that seem too long for his body. Judging this, Callum surmises the boy to be around thirteen years old, the age where most boys usually grow a lot in a short amount of time. 

The boy ducks his head. “Yes,” he replies in a small voice.

Nodding, Callum makes a note of the boy’s statement. “So you stole this bag of apples?” He asks, then gestures to the evidence with his pen.

If possible, the boy shrinks further into himself. “Yes,” he murmurs. He looks positively miserable, and Callum can’t help but feel sorry for him.

“Why did you do that?”

The boy huffs, and a touch of irritation breaks through his sorrow. “It was just a joke. My mate dared me to.”

“I see,” Callum says slowly. “So if your mate jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?”

The boy frowns, and he looks confused and a bit offended. “Course not! I’m not an idiot!”

“Right, sorry, it’s just an expression,” Callum says quickly, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He can be so motherly sometimes, but he can’t help it. There’s an innate protectiveness that comes out when he deals with people, and all he wants is to keep people safe and make sure they’re alright. It certainly doesn’t fit the typical hardened image of a police officer, but Callum believes in second chances and the opportunity to right your wrongs, something he wishes extended to the rest of the police force.

But he’s just one man. He can’t take on the institution by himself, and although there are many things he wants to change about the force, he’s virtually powerless as an officer and not a higher-ranking official. 

Callum knows that change is often slow, and even if he’s bringing it about in small amounts, it’s a start.

“But, sir,” the boy pipes up, looking at Callum with wide eyes, “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

Callum clicks his pen and slots it into the spiral of his notepad, then tucks them into his pocket and shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

The tension practically floods from the boy’s body, and his shoulder slump in relief. “Oh, thank god. My mum would kill me!” He exclaims, and he shudders, no doubt at the thought of the punishment his mother would give him.

Callum bites his lip to prevent a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Tony,” the boy replies, and he fidgets with the strings of his hoodie.

  
“How old are you, Tony?”

“I’m thirteen,” Tony says, and Callum silently applauds himself at his accurate assessment of the boy’s age. His perception is a skill he prides himself on, and the ability to assess people in the heat of the moment is one thing of many that makes him a great police officer. 

“But I’m almost fourteen!” Tony declares, his chest puffing out with pride.

Callum can’t hold back the smile that finally cracks his neutral expression. “Right you are, Tony. Now, listen to me. Shoplifting is a minor offence, but that doesn’t mean it should go unpunished.” He waits until Tony nods in acknowledgement before continuing.

“Normally, I would charge you with a fine, one I assume you don’t have the money to pay. So that would mean your parents are responsible for it.”

Tony’s face falls. “They’re gonna be so upset with me.”

Callum reaches out and places one hand on Tony’s shoulder. “How about,” he says, “Instead of making your parents pay the fine, you do some community service?”

Tony blinks several times, looking taken aback. “Community service? What would I do?”

Callum gestures to the fruit stand. “You work here. Restock the shelves, interact with customers, and do whatever the owner asks of you.”

Tony’s face scrunches into a pout. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yes, it would be,” Callum agrees. “But you’d learn why it’s important that customers pay for their items, and you’d see the consequences of stealing.”

Tony still looks unconvinced. 

Giving Tony’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, Callum continues. “Imagine how awful you’d feel if someone stole from you. That’s one less thing you can sell to make money to support your family.”

Slowly, Tony starts to nod. “You’re right. What I did was wrong.”

Pleased that his point has been made, Callum’s smile widens. “I’m glad you realize that. Let’s get this sorted, shall we?”

Sorting the situation turns out to be quite an easy task. Upon returning from getting a coffee, the vendor is alarmed to see a police officer stationed at her booth, but Callum is quick to explain the situation and prevent any seriously ruffled feathers. An older woman named Bette, she’s impressed with Callum’s handling of the incident and Tony’s honesty. Tony offers a surprisingly heartfelt apology, which Bette is more than happy to accept, along with a few weekends worth of assistance. When Callum walks away, Tony is wearing an apron and happily stacking apples, under the guidance of Bette’s watchful eye.

Callum heads back to the station with a spring in his step, happy that he managed to make some good out of a bad situation. Most officers wouldn’t hesitate to slap handcuffs on a kid and bring him in for questioning. There’s a time and a place for an arrest, and Callum sees no reason to scare the hell out of a kid for a petty crime that could easily be put right. 

He’s still grinning when he walks in the front door, waving cheerfully at the front desk clerk as he passes. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten lunch yet, so he heads for the kitchen to see if he can scrounge up a leftover bagel from this morning’s breakfast. He’s turning the corner when a voice calls after him, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Callum!”

The grin slides off Callum’s face once he realizes who it is. His day just went from good to bad, which it shouldn’t. His day should be going from good to great. He should be happy to see this person, the most special person in his world, the one he loves more than anyone. 

But he’s not. 

Callum turns to see his girlfriend Whitney bounding over to him.

“Whit!” Ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach, Callum plasters what he hopes is a friendly smile on his face. “What are you doing here?”

Whitney holds up a brown paper bag. “Brought you lunch! I figured you’ve been pretty busy all day, so I wanted to help out.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Callum says, and he takes the bag. It is sweet, and thoughtful. But that’s classic Whitney, always willing to lend a hand. She irons his uniform, makes him food to take with him to work, and is completely understanding when scheduling dates around Callum’s often hectic work schedule. She’s the best girlfriend anyone could ask for, and Callum is the luckiest guy in the world to have her.

He doesn’t deserve her. Not even close. Not when as hard as he tries, he can never fully give himself to her, heart and soul, like she deserves.

Whitney shrugs like it’s nothing, but her smile says otherwise. “I try. How’s your day been?”

Callum’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Good,” he manages to say. “Really… good.”

Whitney nods. “That’s good!”

“Yeah.” 

An awkward silence grows between them. Whitney sways back and forth on her feet, waiting for further comment from Callum, but it doesn’t come. It’s like there’s a disconnect between his brain and his mouth, as his brain screams at him to say something, _anything,_ but his mouth refuses to form around words that don’t pass his lips. 

_Ask about her day! Tell her she looks pretty! Anything!_

“You look, uh… nice today,” Callum finally says, and his insides shrivel up in embarrassment. All he can say to the woman he supposedly loves is that she looks _nice?_

Whitney glances down at her casual ensemble of sweatpants and a loose sweater. “I… thank you? I’ve been running errands all day so I’m not up to my usual standards.”

“Don’t matter,” Callum says, and when he smiles at her, he feels like his cheeks are being pulled by an invisible force that he doesn’t control. A marionette, dangling from its strings. “You always look beautiful.”

Callum could die right then and there when Whitney looks up at him with an adoring smile. 

“You sweetheart!” She says happily. “I’d better get going. I’ve still got a few shops to hit and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got loads of reports to write, and… papers to file,” Callum affirms lamely. 

“I’ll see you later then, yeah?” Whitney puts a hand on his arm, and the knot in Callum’s stomach twists tighter.

“Yeah,” he replies flatly. 

Whitney looks slightly disappointed. “What, no goodbye kiss?”

Callum looks around hurriedly to make sure no one is watching them. Whitney laughs and strokes his arm. 

“I was only joking. I know you’re working.”

“No, I—” Callum pauses, takes a deep breath, and then presses his lips to Whitney’s before he can change his mind. It’s a quick kiss, ending right after it began, but it’s enough. Enough to convince everyone that Callum and Whitney are in love.

It does nothing to convince Callum of that supposed truth.

Whitney bites her lip, a flush high on her cheeks. “That was nice.”

Callum ducks his head. “You’re welcome?”

“Oi!”

Callum turns and sees his boss approaching, shaking his head. 

Whitney laughs. “Sorry, Jack!”

Jack reaches the pair and clicks his tongue at Whitney. “He’s on the job, Whit! I need my boys to be sharp! Can’t have you fogging up his brain, can we?”

Callum is so alert that he feels like he’s been doused in cold water. But Jack is right. Kissing Whitney should make him feel warm and happy as a rose-tinted filter descends on his world. But he feels nothing but a cold sense of dread that hangs over him like a fog, and his stomach clenches painfully instead of fluttering with butterflies.

Whitney brushes her hair over one shoulder. “I guess not. Nice seeing you, Jack.”

“Take care, Whitney.”

With that, Whitney waves goodbye to Callum and walks away.

Callum presses his hands to his face and groans behind them. He’s lucky that Whitney didn’t seem to notice how odd he was acting, and even if she did, she didn’t comment.

He has to pull himself together. Things are going really well with Whitney, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. 

Even if every time he sees her, the truth he’s worked too long to keep hidden and buried deep within him grows a little stronger. The voice that whispers in his ear gets a little louder, telling him that he’s living a lie.

Callum isn’t sure how much longer he can keep his inner demons at bay.

Jack interprets Callum’s exasperation as infatuation and elbows Callum lightly in the arm. “Driving you mad, is she?”

Callum drops his hands and forces a laugh. “Women, am I right?”

Jack claps a hand to Callum’s back and gives him a playful shove. “Tell me about it. Where ya heading?”

“Back to my office. Walk with me?”

Callum’s office is a small, cosy space at the end of the hall. Most officers don’t use an office, but his strong presence in the square allows him to keep one for his needs. The majority of his time is spent in and around the square, doing patrol rounds or covering minor incidents. 

Many of the officers on the force zip around in their squad cars, covering big crimes farther away, but Callum has always been content with his little office and his small sphere of influence. That is, until recently, when he realized he could be doing more.

Callum sits in his chair and Jack props himself up on the corner of Callum’s desk. 

“How’s your day been?” Jack asks.

“Fine. Handled a shoplifting incident with a kid. I gave him community service instead of a fine.”

Jack smiles. “That’s good of you. Let the kid learn from his mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Callum replies. “And everything is fine, but I just… I just feel like I could be doing more.”

Jack folds his arms across his chest. “Meaning?”

Callum takes a deep breath so steady himself. “I want to investigate the mob.”

Jack inhales sharply. “Callum—”

“Look, I know it sounds crazy,” Callum interrupts, “But I’m ready for this!”

“Bit of a leap from shoplifting kids, don’t ya think?” Jack scoffs. 

“Come on, Jack,” Callum protests. “Why is no one doing anything about the Mitchells?”

Jack looks offended. “I can promise you that we are. My apologies if our operations aren’t up to your standards, but last time I checked you was just an officer.”

Callum runs a hand through his hair, irritated and trying to keep himself from snapping. “The Mitchell mob owns the East End. They fill the streets with drugs and run every type of scam under the sun! Don’t you think they should be stopped?”

“Yeah, of course I think a dangerous criminal gang should be stopped!”

Callum scrubs a hand across his face. “Then why haven’t they? I’ve been following this case since I joined the force, alright? There’ve been no substantial arrests, no big busts, and no solid information! Surely we can find something out?”

Jack heaves a sigh. “It ain’t that simple, Callum,” he says, propping his hands on his hips. 

Callum shrugs and leans back in his desk chair. “Don’t seem that hard to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack looks at Callum incredulously. “Then what would you do, mister hot shot?”

Callum leans forward in his chair and fixes Jack with a serious look. “Set up an operation. Send in some undercover officers, posing as potential business partners looking for a deal. Someone slips up, we catch ‘em, and then we make ‘em talk.”

Jack shakes his head. “That’s just it, Callum. The Mitchells don’t slip up. All their money is tied up safely, God knows where. All of their businesses are run legitimately, and the shady deals they run out of ‘em are well covered-up. And everyone we’ve ever arrested with a connection to the mob was just a grunt ready to take the fall and do some jail time.”

A brief silence falls between the two men as they think.

“Who put you up on this high horse, anyway?” Jack asks.

Callum runs a hand across the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to sound rude. You know I have nothing but respect for you.”

“Apology accepted. And I understand your frustration, Callum, I really do. We’ve been trying to topple the Mitchell empire as long as I’ve been with the police.”

Callum breathes out slowly through his nose. “I just… I’m tired of seeing people getting hurt. How many more bodies have to turn up before this ends?”

Shoulders slumping, Jack looks defeated, and Callum can practically feel the guilt that weighs so heavily on him.

“Phil Mitchell is untouchable,” Jack says quietly. “He’s been ruling the square for over thirty years.”

Callum can’t help the shiver that goes down his spine at hearing the name. He’s heard every swirling rumor and every chilling story about the notorious mob boss, who rules over the East End with an iron fist. His file is a mile long, stuffed to the brim with countless offenses. His history in the square is stained with blood, and the few mob members who were lucky enough to escape are no longer around to tell their stories.

“I’m not saying we have to go after _him,_ ” Callum says. “We start at the bottom and work our way up. Take down lower-ranking officials first. Give me a moment…”

Callum reaches under his desk and pulls out a large cork board covered in newspaper clippings, photographs, and sticky notes. Lengths of red string run all across it, linking certain people and events. What once started as a hobby quickly spiraled into a full-blown personal investigation, and Callum has been collecting every bit of information on the mob that he can find.

Eyes darting across the board as he takes it all in, Jack looks stunned. “How long have you been working on this?”

Callum idly plucks at a red string. “Ever since I joined the force.”

A sense of realization seems to dawn on Jack. “This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it,” he says, sounding resigned.

“Jack… I’m a good police officer. I know how to talk to people and collect information.”

Jack doesn’t say anything and instead runs a hand across his cheek.

Callum continues to advocate for himself. “I know I don’t have much experience out in the field except for the square, but that’s an advantage. I know this square, and I know its people. There’s no one better than me to see this through.”

  
  


Although he exhales loudly, Jack nods. “Put together a team. Keep it small and close-knit, somewhere between five and ten officers. All of you report to me with any finding, no matter how small. Do you understand?”

Callum’s heart leaps in his chest. “Thank you, Jack!” He exclaims. Rising to his feet, he hurries around the desk to give Jack a hug. 

Jack laughs. “Alright, Halfway, easy!” He releases Callum and holds him at arm’s length. “Just be careful. These people are not to be underestimated.”

Callum nods earnestly. “I promise.”

“Alright. Now get to work.” Jack pats Callum on the back before leaving.

A smile a mile wide grows on Callum’s face. This is his chance to make a difference. He punches the air in celebration, then turns his attention to his cork board. He doesn’t have many photos of mob members, since they usually keep to themselves and their business dealings. The three he does have are all mugshots, and his eyes flicker across their black and white surfaces. 

There’s Jay Brown, who’s young, but one of the highest-ranking members. The sly grin and mischievous twinkle in his eyes give him a confidence that transcends the disparity between the two-dimensional photograph and the real world. 

Phil Mitchell, the king of it all. The harsh lighting of the photo darkens the shadows around his eyes and the angry scowl that pulls on his face. 

Callum’s eyes fall on the last photograph, one that makes him pause. Heart pounding, he removes the thumbtack keeping it in place and holds it up in front of his face.

Tousled head of hair, one eyebrow raised defiantly, and a devilish half-smile. Callum runs his finger across his own handwriting, feeling the slight indentation left by the press of a pen.

_Ben Mitchell._

“You,” Callum murmurs. Realization crashes into him like a wave, and he can’t help but laugh at himself and his own ignorance. The answer is literally staring him in the face. 

What better place to start than with Phil’s own son, undoubtedly being groomed and trained to take over the entire operation when the time is right. The second-in-command knows more than everyone else in the mob. This is the leaping off point that Callum has been looking for. 

Springing to his feet, Callum pulls down the few things he has hung up on the wall behind his desk, and replaces them with the corkboard. He needs to find a place to put the picture of Ben Mitchell for the time being, until he can get another corkboard dedicated entirely to him and his movements. His eyes fall on the framed picture of Whitney he keeps on his desk. His heart aches as he looks at her bright eyes and the warm smile on her face. 

Shaking off the unexpected rush of emotion, Callum quickly tucks the photo into the frame, replacing Whitney’s smiling face with Ben’s smirking one. Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. Maybe seeing Ben’s face everyday will keep Callum motivated to keep pushing forward, no matter how hard things get.

Allowing himself a brief moment to celebrate, Callum sits back down in his chair and props his feet up on his desk. He knows he can do this. He just has to push down his self-doubt and get the job down.

He finds his eyes falling on the photo again, Ben’s shadowy face glaring up at him. Callum frowns, suddenly unsure if he really wants to see that man’s face so often.

Maybe it’s not the best idea to keep him so close.

***

The line to get into _Paul’s_ stretches several feet down the sidewalk. People wrap their winter coats a little tighter around themselves against the cold night air but practically vibrate with excitement. It’s the most popular club around, boasting a fully booked entertainment schedule and an alcohol list a mile long.

Inside, the club teems with life. The dance floor is packed with people, their bodies swaying together to the music. Multi-colored lights sweep across the scene, draping it in a cascade of flashing colors that make the whole thing seem like a dream. Waiters in pristine white suits weave through the crowd with practiced ease, keeping the alcohol flowing and the patrons happy. 

Tucked away near the back of the club is a lush velvet couch, occupied by a pair of men. One sits at the hip of the other, head bobbing in time to the music, a martini glass dangling in his fingers. 

The other man is draped across the couch with an air of relaxed superiority, one arm casually slung across the back. His eyes are bright as they sweep across the club, taking in the spectacle and watching for anything suspicious. Dressed in a cobalt blue suit, he oozes sophistication, and wealth practically drips off him in the smart gold watch on his wrist. 

He’s an undeniably imposing figure. A self-assured sense of confidence emanates from his pulled-back shoulders and the slight upward tilt of his chin. There’s an underlying unapproachability to his stature, visible in the slight narrowing of his eyes when a passerby gets too close. This is not a man to be trifled with. Anyone who challenges him better come prepared. 

He is, after all, Ben Mitchell, one of the biggest mob bosses in all of London. 

“Fun night.”

Ben turns his head to look at his companion, a handsome young man named Noah, who grins at him. The rosy flush of his cheeks is visible even in the darkened lighting, probably from the alcohol. He’s meant to keep track of how many drinks he’s had by drawing tallies on his arm with a pen, but the pen had disappeared a few hours ago.

“Pretty great, yeah,” is the flat answer that Ben gives, and then he turns his attention back to the club. Even though one leg is slung across Noah's lap, he doesn’t feel any desire to go any further. He just wants a warm body by his side to keep him company. 

Noah’s lower lip sticks out in a pout. “You’re so grumpy tonight.”

Ben turns and fixes Noah with a blank look. “I’m not grumpy. I said it’s a good night.”

“This couch is super comfy and all, but we could be daaaancing!” Noah whines, stroking a hand up and down Ben’s thigh. 

Ben doesn’t move a muscle, completely content to remain where he is. “I’m alright. Feel free to throw yourself on the dance floor and latch onto another bloke.”

“I don’t want another bloke.” Noah sets his glass aside, grabs Ben by the lapels of his suit jacket, and pulls him in close. “I want you.”

“This is expensive,” Ben says cooly, and he gently pries Noah’s hands off his jacket. His nose wrinkles up at the alcohol wafting off the man in waves. “How much have you had?”

Noah shrugs, and he shoots a wink at Ben, then immediately dissolves into giggles. 

Ben heaves a long-suffering sigh and shakes his head. He visits his club to lose himself in the chaos and forget everything, not to babysit needy men who’ve had a skinful. 

“Come on, Ben,” Noah whispers. He presses one hand to Ben’s chest, fingers splaying across his suit, and starts to kiss his neck. Ben’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, and he can’t deny that it’s pleasant, but he also can’t be bothered to return the attention. 

Thankfully, a waiter walks over and gets Ben’s attention. “Sir, there’s a Mr. Wilson here to see you.”

Noah stops kissing Ben and pulls away to look at the waiter, but he keeps his arms looped around Ben’s neck in a possessive manner. “Can’t you see we’re busy?” He snaps, leveling an angry glare at the waiter, who looks surprised by his attitude. 

“Don’t be rude to my staff,” Ben scolds, then turns to the waiter. “Bring him over.”

Noah rolls his eyes as the waiter hurries off into the crowd. Ben starts to say something, but pauses when a thought comes to him. 

Hands cupping Noah’s face, Ben leans in close. “Kiss me,” he says, and it’s not a request, but a demand.

“Seriously?” Noah asks, looking unimpressed. “You haven’t been interested all night but now—”

“Shut up,” Ben groans, and then he captures Noah’s lips in a kiss. Eager to be closer, Noah climbs into Ben’s lap and straddles him. Ben’s back presses flat against the back of the couch as Noah kisses him passionately, hands roaming across his chest. 

The music pounds in Ben’s ears, drowning out everything except for Noah’s moans. The flashing lights push at the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Noah’s cologne and the smell of alcohol swirl around his head like an addictive fog.

Someone clears their throat loudly. Ben pulls away from Noah and sees his client standing in front of him, hands clasped behind his back.

Ben slips his arms around Noah’s waist and hugs him, pressing their bodies flush together. “James!” He says happily, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for coming.”

James takes in the sight of Noah on Ben’s lap with a disgusted frown, but doesn’t comment on it. Ben’s grin widens, and he can practically smell the poorly-concealed hate coming off of James. It’s always a laugh to put his clients a little on edge. 

Ben rests his chin on Noah’s shoulder. “You brought the goods, then?”

Eyes darting around the club, James looks immensely uncomfortable. Ben picks up on the way he shifts from one foot to the other, a nervous tic that would usually go unnoticed, but Ben’s perceptiveness is honed by a lifetime in the mob. 

“Not here.”  
  
Ben barely hears James’s voice over the noise, but the message is clear. 

“Very well.” 

Ben turns his attention back to Noah and cups his face. “I have to go deal with a little business. Can you keep my seat warm for me?”

The kiss that Noah plants on Ben is answer enough. 

The two men leave through the back entrance, reserved for Ben and the few people he grants access to. They slip outside like two shadows rejoining the overwhelming darkness of the night, and Ben makes sure the door is closed firmly behind them.

A harsh breeze whips through the alley, adding an extra chill to the already cold air. Ben’s coat is back in the club, sitting on the assumption that the business interaction will be brief. He regrets the choice as the frigid air cuts through his suit and he hugs himself for warmth.

His own coat buttoned up securely, James’s already ruffled appearance is further disheveled by the breeze, tousling his hair into a wild mess and pushing the coat collar up against his neck. He looks skittish, like an animal trapped in the glare of oncoming headlights. His widened eyes dart back and forth, looking at everything but Ben, and they shine with an almost manic glint in the warm glow of the street lights.

“Right.” Ben is cold and impatient, and he would much rather prefer Noah’s warm body atop him than standing across from a client. He settles into a firm stance in front of James, his shoulders pulled back and chin tilted up. “Where’s my money?”

Hands wringing together, James doesn’t meet Ben’s gaze, instead focusing on his boot as he drags the toe of it across the pavement. 

“Oi!” Eyes narrowing, Ben gives James a shove on the chest. When James doesn’t react, Ben grabs the man’s chin and forces his head up so their faces are level.

“Where’s my money?” Ben repeats the question, his voice a few degrees cooler than before. 

James’s chin trembles slightly, and his lips move on a mumbled answer that Ben doesn’t hear.

“Sorry,” Ben says flatly, gesturing to his ear, “I’m a bit deaf, and I didn’t catch that.”

“I…” James swallows hard, then gives the slightest shake of his head. “I don’t have it.”

“What?”

“I don’t have it!” James shouts, his voice trilling up.

Ben’s lips part and his tongue darts out to wet them. Any patience he has is slowly trickling away like water from a cracked glass. This deal is only supposed to be a simple collection, and there’s no reason for it to be so complicated. Ben makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat as he etches another mental tally in his head, adding James to a worryingly growing list of clients who don’t do what they’re expected.

“You don’t have it,” Ben says, not inflicting a questioning tone on his words, giving James the chance to confirm or deny it.

James shakes his head. “I don’t have it.”

Ben grits his teeth. “And why is that, James? You better have a good excuse, because I’ve already given you an extra month.”

“I couldn’t pull it together in time,” James replies.

Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, Ben sighs. “That’s pretty irresponsible of you,” he scolds, and he pops a slap to James’s cheek with the palm of his hand.

Up until this point, James has been standing as still and rigid as a statue, but now he springs into action. He grabs Ben by the front of his jacket and shoves him up against the wall, crowding into his space by bringing their faces close together.

Normally, Ben loves being pushed up against the wall of a dark alleyway. He lives for the thrill of being manhandled by someone eager to get it on, hidden from the rest of the world by the night’s shadows. In this instance, with the brick digging into his back and a pair of hands gripping his jacket, he’s being threatened instead of wooed, which isn’t nearly as fun.

“Pinning me up against a wall?” Ben tilts his head to the side, a predator sizing up his prey. “Bit gay, innit?” He asks, looking up into the taller man’s face with a smirk. James sneers in disgust at the joke, which only fans the flames of Ben’s confidence.

“This ends now, Ben,” James says, his voice low. “I’m done doing business with you.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You still owe me quite a bit of money.”

James pulls Ben forward and slams him back against the wall. “I told you! I ain’t got it! And if I did, you wouldn’t see it!”

Ben laughs harshly. “Unfortunately, that’s not how these things work. You’ve got a debt to be paid. And if you haven’t got the money, then you owe me some favors.”

“I ain’t doing your dirty work,” James hisses through clenched teeth. “I have no interest in being your errand boy.”

“Yet you get yourself in this mess by not paying up.” Ben leans in close and drops his voice to a whisper. “You’re not the most responsible man, are you?”

James’s grip tightens on Ben’s coat. “You try coming up with the money _and_ the interest rates!”

“It’s what you agreed to, remember? Don’t go swimming with sharks if you ain’t prepared.”

With a growl, James lets go of Ben and takes a few steps back, hands pressed to his face.

Ben readjusts his jacket and shakes his head at James. “You pathetic excuse of a man. You think you’re intimidating? Mate, have I got news for—”

Pain explodes across Ben’s cheek as James’s fist connects with the side of his face. Head snapping back, Ben’s cheek strikes the brick wall, and he shouts in pain. He slowly brings a few fingers up to his face, wincing when they touch the throbbing flesh, and when he brings them away from his face to look, he sees red.

Ben slowly looks up from his bloodied fingers to James, his chest heaving with panting breaths. James looks panicked, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly.

“Ben,” he says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, “I didn’t—”

His voice is cut off as Ben punches him square in the jaw, sending him reeling. James clutches his face with one hand, his expression somewhere between shock and anger. 

Ben shakes out his hand and shrugs. “Have it your way, then.”

The two men lunge at each other, hands grabbing at anything they can reach. James is larger than Ben, but slower, and Ben uses that to his advantage. He grabs James’s arm and yanks hit behind his back, causing him to howl in pain. 

James throws his head back, catching Ben right in the face. Stars explode across his vision, and he feels the telltale warm gush of blood from both nostrils. 

With Ben momentarily stunned, James rolls on top of him and grabs him by the front of his jacket. He punches Ben across the mouth, and Ben shouts as he feels his lip split. 

Ben fights back with a well-placed knee to James’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and he escapes the hold. He curls his fingers into a fist again to strike James in the mouth, hard, and the man falls flat on his back.

Unsteadily rising to his feet, Ben’s head pounds with the echo of the blows it received. He towers over a fallen and defeated James, who rolls over onto his hands and knees and stares up at Ben.

Blood dripping from his lips, James bares his teeth in a garish smile. “You’re nothing but a big pushover. Daddy isn’t here to protect you, is he?”

The insult hangs in the air for a few moments as Ben stands motionless, mulling the comment over. Then he sighs and reaches into the waistband of his trousers. 

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

James laughs. “Yeah, ri—”

Ben pulls out a handgun and aims it at James in the span of a few seconds. 

Laughter dying in his throat, James stops short, eyes widening in surprise as they find the barrel of a gun pointed directly at his head.

“Try me,” Ben says flatly. 

James inhales sharply. “Ben,” he says, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, “Let’s not be rash.”

“I think we’ve passed the time of rational decision-making,” Ben retorts, his hands steady on the gun. He looks at James with a look of annoyance, thoroughly fed up with his nonsense.

“Ben,” James says again, practically begging, “Please. I-I’ll do anything!”

Ben scoffs. “Is that right?”

“Think of my family, Ben!” James is close to tears as he grovels at Ben’s feet.

Ben can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, boo-hoo for your family. _I’ve_ got a family too.”

“Ben, please just… please just put the gun down,” James pleads. 

“That reminds me.” Ben takes off the safety. “I don’t remember if I loaded this.”

“Ben,” James says, eyes wide and voice shaky. 

Ben takes aim and pulls the trigger.

“BEN!” James screams. He throws his hands up in a futile attempt to cover his face, cowering in fear. 

_Click._

Ben looks down at the gun with false surprise, then at James with a childish smile. “It’s not!” He proclaims gleefully. 

Body trembling like a leaf in a storm, James slowly brings his hands down from his face. His chest heaves with rapid breaths as he hurriedly checks his body, and when he discovers he’s unharmed, he lets out a choked gasp of relief. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you, mate!” Ben bites his lip to stifle a laugh.

“You fucking bastard.” James ducks his head and fists his hands in his hair.

Ben reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out two bullets. He holds them up to James, who doesn’t see them. “You need these to make it work.”

The gun clicks softly as Ben loads the bullets. James’s head snaps up and he gasps as he looks down the barrel of the gun again, this time armed and ready to kill.

“Do I have your attention now?” Ben asks.

James nods fervently. 

“Good.” Ben wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, scowling at the blood he smears. 

“B-Ben…”

“I only need one bullet to kill you.”

Words dying in his throat, James visibly swallows hard. “What’s the second bullet for?”

“If I want to make you suffer first,” Ben replies, his voice cold and hard like a shard of ice.

Panic floods James’s face. “And… and do you?”

Ben tilts his head to the side. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“I’ll get you the money,” James whispers. “I promise.”

Readjusting his grip slightly, Ben shakes his head. “That’s what you said last time. I’m not exactly inclined to believe a dirty liar like you.”

“Tomorrow!” James shrieks. “T-tomorrow night.”

Ben scowls. “Tomorrow morning. Or you’re done.”

“Okay.”

Ben nods. “Glad that’s sorted. Now get up.”

Ben tucks the gun back into his waistband, leans down and grabs James by the collar, then yanks the other man’s face up close to his own.

“For your information, I don’t need my dad to protect me,” Ben says slowly, his voice low and edging on a growl. “I’m my own man, and I handle my business the way I see fit.”

James nods fervently.

“I am not my father.” Ben grits his teeth at the loaded truth. “And you’re lucky I’m the one who handles the loans. If it was my dad, you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere and we’d already be repossessing your house to pay off your debts.”

“I’m sorry,” James whispers.

Ben makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Fuck off. Get out of here.”

He pushes James away from him and makes a show of wiping his hands on his pants. His suit is wrecked, covered in dirt and ripped in several places. Blood spatters across the once-pristine white of his shirt.

“I’ll be sending you my dry cleaning bill!” Ben shouts after James as he scurries off into the night.

“Fucking bastard.”

Ben pulls out his handkerchief and presses it to his nose, wincing at how tender it feels. He can’t go back into his club in this state. The sting of humiliation hurts almost as much as the bruises and cuts that adorn his face. He stalks off into the night, intending to fall into the first bar he can find.

A short while later, Ben is planted in a stool at the bar of some low-rate dive. He frowns at the sticky countertop, but appreciates the warm escape from the bitter cold outside.

“Lager, please.” Ben signals to the bartender, who nods and brings a bottle over to the bartop.

Ben raises the bottle to his lips and takes a heavy drink. It’s been a stressful, painful night, one he would prefer to wash away with alcohol. Loan sharking is one of the biggest parts of the Mitchell business, but it’s one that comes with its fair share of nuisance. Everyone knows Phil has plenty of money to bail them out, but that momentary relief dissipates once the interest rates start piling up. The original desperation that pushed people to sign over their life to Phil worsens into an enraged sense of hopelessness when they realize they can’t pay back their debts. 

Less than satisfied customers are the norm, and Ben handles them all. The job started as a test run, a way for Phil to see if Ben could handle some of the more personal (and nastier) parts of the business. It’s one thing to oversee shipments of drugs to vast hordes of people who Ben will never meet, and it’s another thing entirely to know the names and faces of people who got involved with the Mitchells. 

Ben gently feels around his face, wincing as his fingers brush across the tender skin of the bruises and cuts. He’s certainly taken a beating tonight.

A soft clinking noise catches Ben’s attention, and he glances down to see a glass of whiskey sitting in front of him on the bartop.

“I didn’t order this.” Ben looks to the bartender for an explanation.

Cleaning a glass, he nods over Ben’s shoulder. “From the gentleman over there.”

Ben’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He throws a glance over his shoulder and finds a very attractive man gazing at him from a table across from the bar. He raises his own glass of whiskey in a silent toast. 

This could be _fun._

Ben turns back around, but he can feel the man watching him. He glances down at his watch and mentally notes the time. He gives it a couple of minutes.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the man slides into the empty barstool next to Ben.

“I thought you could use something a little stronger than beer,” he says.

Ben snorts, torn between wanting to be alone and the prospect of getting some. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The man’s eyes dart across Ben’s face, taking in every cut and bruise. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

“Cheers, mate,” Ben says bitterly. Glass dangling between his fingers, he knocks back the whiskey in one gulp, wincing as it sears down his throat. It burns, but it helps distract from the throbbing ache that pounds mercilessly at his head. 

The man signals the bartender, who comes over and refills Ben’s glass.

Arms folded and elbows resting on the bartop, Ben shoots the man a sideways glance. 

“Everyone loves a bad boy, eh?”

A smile tugs at the corners of the man’s mouth. “I’m Sam.”

Ben looks down at the outstretched hand and takes it. “Ben.”

“I’m charmed,” Sam says, his smile widening. He’s handsome, with dark hair and warm brown eyes that shine even in the dim light of the bar.

Ben kicks back the second glass of whiskey, and the burning sensation is welcome this time.

“Care for another?”

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Ben shrugs. “Maybe. But there is a limit to the kindness of strangers.”

“Money is no object.”

“Still.” Ben tilts his head and gazes at Sam. “What do you want?”

Sam runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “A quiet drink with a handsome bloke and a nice conversation.”

Ben laughs. “Bit vanilla, innit?”

Leaning in close to Ben, Sam’s voice drops to a whisper. “I’m a man of many tastes.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ben whispers back, the hint of a challenge in his voice, and he shamelessly lets his gaze drop to Sam’s lips. 

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs. He slowly reaches over and places his hand on Ben’s thigh to give it a squeeze.

A rush of excitement floods through Ben. “Let me clear up here,” he says, gesturing to the bar, “And then you and I can chat outside.”

Sam smirks. “Chat?”

“Just two mates, chatting,” Ben replies with a sly smile. “Nothing suspicious.”

Sam nods, catching his drift. “Dark alley. Plenty of privacy.”

Ben’s smile widens. “Why don’t you take care of the tab, and then we can get out of here.”

“My pleasure,” Sam replies.

Excitement growing in Ben, he winks and hurries out of the bar, eager for Sam to follow him.

For the second time of the night, Ben finds himself pushed up against the brick wall behind a bar, but this time around is enjoyable. The hands that grip the lapels of his jacket are gentle, drifting upward to cup his face as Sam kisses him slowly. 

“Your place or mine?” Sam whispers against Ben’s lips. 

Ben tilts his head back, breaking the kiss, and looks at Sam. “What’s wrong with right here?”

Sam bites his lip. “I like the way you think.”

“Get to it, then!” Ben starts unbuttoning Sam’s shirt. “I ain’t got all night.”

Sam fumbles with Ben’s belt buckle in his eagerness to undo it. 

Ben’s eyes flutter closed as he feels an unexpected stab of sadness, like a draft of cold air he can’t escape from. Even in the heat of the moment, as Sam kisses Ben’s neck and fumbles with the waistband of his underwear, he feels lonely. It’s a ridiculous notion, but one that he feels deeply. He can’t properly enjoy the moment, not with the knowledge that it will end soon. 

Ben’s been down this road many, many times before. They’ll have their fun. Sam might ask for Ben’s number, hopeful for the prospect of another meeting, but Ben has already decided to never see him again. He isn’t interested in second dates and all the things that come with traditional romance. For one, he doesn’t have time for a proper relationship, not with the way Phil has him running around to keep the business functioning smoothly. 

Sam abruptly pulls away, his hand straying against Ben’s lower abdomen. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough. “You alright? You don’t seem very interested.”

Ben mentally shakes himself. “Sorry,” he says quickly, and he flashes a smile he doesn’t truly feel. “Just… rough night. I’m a bit out of it.”

Sam nods. “Well, I can help you forget all of your troubles,” he says, his voice a low rumble that promises dirty things.

“I’d like nothing more,” Ben replies, and then Sam is kissing him again, hard and messy. His hand drifts down the line of Ben’s stomach and into his underwear.

Ben moans against Sam’s lips as his hand finds purchase. Smirking, Sam works his way across Ben’s cheek to press a series of searing kisses to the underside of his jaw.

They’re nothing but empty kisses, ones that Ben won’t even remember in the morning, and Sam’s face will fade into obscurity along with the countless other blokes he’s hooked up with. 

But for now, as Ben throws his head back and gasps at Sam’s ministrations, it’s enough. 

Barely enough to fill the aching hole in his heart that he can never seem to fill, but enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's probably a little disappointing that Ben and Callum didn't meet, but don't worry! Next chapter will bring them together, and it's quite the ride. I wanted some space to explore a typical day for both Ben and Callum to give some context for how they work and live their lives. I hope anyone reading liked the first chapter, and see you next time!
> 
> you can find me at @spielsonian on twitter + @maryatthecomiccon on tumblr :)


	2. collision course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callum's investigation into the Mitchell mob has barely started when he stumbles across the biggest lead he could ever find. The question is... should he pursue it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the lovely comments on the first chapter! this fic is so much fun to write and i'm glad that people seem to be enjoying it <3
> 
> trigger warnings // guns, blood, injury

The square is quiet in the morning before the hustle and bustle of the day truly begins. The market sits empty save for vendors setting up their booths, and only a few people traverse the usually packed streets. 

Ben sits on a park bench, legs stretched out in front of him and arms hanging loosely at his sides. What little light that pierces through the clouds overhead is enough to make him wince in pain. His head still throbs with a dull ache that he can feel in every bruise and cut on his face, coupled with a sluggish feeling, like a weight pressing down on the top of his head.

Lots of alcohol in his club? Fine. But he regrets drinking more _after_ getting battered; what was he thinking? A beer and two whiskeys, then the contents of the hip flask he keeps on him. Recovering from the fight is worse enough without him adding a brutal hangover to the mix.

Ben needs a hot shower, a fresh set of clothes, and several painkillers, all of which he could have gotten if he had gone home. But he didn’t, instead choosing to aimlessly wander the streets until the sun started coming up. The business and pleasure of the night had left him exhausted, and he couldn’t summon up the energy to walk all the way home. Besides, he knows that no matter how quietly he sneaks in, there will always be a light flickering on and someone waking up. And frankly, he couldn’t be bothered with more conflict. 

It was sort of peaceful, in a way, to walk along empty streets that are usually filled with people and to look up at buildings gone dark with the lateness of the hour. Ben had been alone, but he felt free. No one watching him, no one breathing over his shoulder, no one barking commands. He could have danced in the street like Gene Kelly if he so desired, spinning around lamp posts and brandishing an imaginary umbrella. 

Ben loves his life, but it can be completely overwhelming. More often than not he feels suffocated by responsibilities and strangled by the soul-crushing need to be enough. Ever since he was a boy, the one goal he’s never stopped chasing is pleasing his father. Phil is the single most important person in Ben’s life, the man who gave him a place to belong and a purpose. 

But it hadn’t always been that way. At first, Phil didn’t want Ben coming anywhere near the mob. Not out of the kindness he harbored in his heart for his son, but rather an inherent dislike of Ben. He always thought of Ben as weak, and pathetic, a silly boy who would never amount to someone worthy of a place among the mob ranks.

It wasn’t Ben’s fault that he was abused by the seemingly endless string of women that Phil dated, each one worse than the last. None of them were with him for love. They all thirsted for something he possessed: money, power, influence. To them, Ben was a distraction that interrupted Phil’s otherwise undiverted attention. Phil paid no attention to Ben’s whimpers of fear, the bruises on his hands, or the pair of broken glasses held together with tape. 

But this treatment didn’t last forever. Finally, Ben got tired of waiting for his father to defend him, and he stood up for himself.

Ben can still remember the moment when he proved his father wrong. At the time, Colette, the latest of Phil’s conquests, was particularly nasty to Ben, always cuffing him around the ear for speaking. One day she got carried away with her punishment, and Ben refused to suffer at her hands any longer.

Eyes fluttering shut to truly savor the memory, Ben’s mouth curves into a grin as he recalls the stunned look on Phil’s face when Colette burst into his office in tears, clutching a bloody nose. Ben had followed closely after, his little face swollen from a black eye but beaming with pride. Phil had taken one look at the scene and banished Colette from his life, spewing profanities and threats. Then he had turned his attention to Ben and wrapped him up in a tight hug.

“That’s my boy! That’s who I know you can be! A fighter! A true Mitchell!”

Tears fell upon Ben’s battered cheeks, and he feared he might burst from the happiness he felt.

From that moment on, Ben became Phil’s top priority. His life changed from school and football to lessons on business and combat training. He was learning how to be a loan shark at ten, how to effectively extract information from a captive at thirteen, and how to fire a gun at fifteen. At sixteen he became a fully-fledged member of the mob, ruling over the empire as his father’s second-in-command.

Now, nearly eight years later, nothing has changed. Ben takes whatever task Phil throws at him, no matter how dirty. It doesn’t matter what he does or who he hurts. All he cares about is the pride in his father’s eyes when he delivers news of a successful job. He craves his father's respect like a drug he can never quit. 

And he tries his best to ignore the invasive, critical voice in his head that taunts him with self-doubt, never ceasing in its tirade that he’ll never be enough, and that Phil will never fully accept him or love him back.

Ben’s head gives a particularly nasty throb, effectively pulling him out of his thoughts. He groans, both in pain and at the memories. He’s a deeply nostalgic person who probably relies a bit too heavily on the past. He can’t help it; all the experiences in his life have shaped him into the person he is today, most of them bad. He does his best to accept them as a part of who he is, a task easier said than done. 

But Ben does try. He has people in his life that depend on him. He has to be the best that he can be, for them.

Ben’s mobile vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and groans when he sees Jay’s name on the screen, but he answers.

“Yeah?”

“Where the hell are you?” Jay instantly demands, anger evident in his voice.

Ben rubs at the inner corner of his eye. “Park bench in the square. “

“Have you been there all night?”

There’s an extended pause, birds chirping in the otherwise complete silence.

“No.”

He can hear Jay sigh. “Ben.”

Ben pulls the phone away from his ear and sticks his tongue out at Jay’s profile photo.

“Ben? You still there?”

Gritting his teeth, Ben brings the phone up to his ear again. “Yeah. What is it?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. Lola said you didn’t come home last night.”

Ben scrubs a hand down his face and groans. He’d forgotten to text her, and now he’ll have to deal with the repercussions. Another thing on his plate and it’s not even noon.

“Come on down to the cafe, yeah? Let’s get you some food.”

Ben can’t help but smile. Jay always looks after him, even and especially when he can’t look after himself. Usually the voice of reason between the two, Jay always has Ben’s best interests at heart and never fails to have his back. Of course, they’ve shared plenty of wild nights and daring heists over the years. Their relationship is forged in trust, loyalty, and of course, plenty of brotherly teasing.

“Waiting on an answer.”

“I’ll be right over,” Ben says. 

“Cheers.” Then Jay hangs up.

Ben sighs and tucks his mobile back into his pocket. He slowly rises to his feet and raises his arms high above his head, humming in content as he stretches them out. His body is stiff and achy, not even close to being fully recovered from last night’s fight.

Dropping his arms to his sides, ignoring how every step hurts, Ben strolls over to the cafe, in need of a hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee.

Ben enters the cafe and spots Jay immediately. Dressed in an impeccable black suit, he stands out among the rest of the casually-dressed crowd. His usual attire serves a dual purpose. Members of the mob always dress to impress, and Jay manages _Coker’s,_ the funeral parlor in the square. It’s the perfect situation. He presents himself as just another businessman to the general public, while conducting mob business right under their noses. Of course, the parlor is a valuable asset, and not just as a cover. Every now and again a body needs to be disposed of. 

Ben drops into the empty chair across from Jay with a heavy sigh. His knee bangs the table on the way down, making the plates and cutlery rattle.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He’s feeling particularly edgy right now, and every little thing irritates him far more than it should. 

Jay slowly looks up from his newspaper and raises an eyebrow at Ben’s disheveled appearance, eyes taking in a suit that was once spotless and crisp, but is now dusted with dirt and dotted with blood. It’s a telltale sign that whatever business Ben dealt with the previous night was difficult.

“Long night?” Jay asks, his face a picture of sympathy and concern.

Ben stares at the table for a few seconds, processing Jay’s question, before snagging a sausage off Jay’s plate. 

“Oi!” Jay protests. He drops his newspaper on the table and smacks Ben’s hand.

“You have no idea,” Ben answers, and then he stuffs the sausage in his mouth.

Jay rolls his eyes and moves his plate away from Ben. “I already ordered you breakfast. No need to steal mine.”

The snappy comeback from Ben that Jay is accustomed to doesn’t come, which gives Jay pause. 

“You alright?” Jay asks. His eyes move up from Ben’s suit to his face, and his brows kit together at what he sees: a solemn expression, an array of cuts and bruises. There’s blood too, and a lot of it: under Ben’s nostrils, gathered on his chin from a split lip. 

Jay has seen Ben all beaten up plenty of times, but there’s something different about him now. Ben wears his wounds like a badge of honor, always eager to gloat about the brutal fight he won, reveling in his victory to the tune of _You should see the other guy!_

None of that usual bravado is present on Ben’s face. He looks defeated, and tired, and that worries Jay.

Ben presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and groans behind his hands. He can practically feel himself falling apart, his body pushed to the breaking point by exhaustion. 

“Ben?”

Jay’s voice rings in Ben’s ears, hesitant and concerned.

Ben drops his hands away from his face and flashes a winning smile at Jay. “Never better!” He says in a false cheerful voice, perfected from years of practice. 

A waitress comes over and sets a plate full of steaming food down in front of Ben, and he can hear his stomach growl. 

“Thank you, darling,” Ben says, flashing a quick smile.

“You’re lying.”

Ben freezes, his fork poised midway to his mouth. “What?”

Arms folded across his chest, Jay shrugs. “You’re lying to me. I know you’re not alright.”

Ben’s lips twitch, and he shoves a mouthful of eggs into his mouth to avoid responding.

Jay reaches across the table to put a hand on Ben’s arm. “You know you can always be honest with me,” he says gently. “Our whole life is keeping secrets, but not from each other, yeah?”

Ben puts his hand on top of Jay’s and nods in agreement. Jay is right. It’s not fair to shut him out, even though it’s always easier that way. Ben just has such a hard time truly letting people in, even those closest to him.

But when his brother is offering him a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on, he’d be a fool not to take it.

“I’m tired, Jay,” Ben admits wearily.

“You certainly look it,” Jay replies, not unkindly, but from a place of care. Ben looks downright exhausted, skin paler than normal, the dark circles under his eyes almost identical to the bruises that decorate his cheeks.

“I mean…” Ben exhales heavily through his nose and takes a sip of his coffee. “Dad’s got me running all over the place to collect from clients, and most of ‘em beat my head in. I’m in charge of the Arches _and_ the car lot now. I’m so busy I hardly have any time for myself.”

Jay purses his lips, trying to think of the right thing to say. “You could mention all that to Phil? Maybe he can cut you some slack.”

Ben ducks his head and laughs bitterly. “Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” Ben raises his head to look at Jay. “Giving me all these jobs means that he trusts me, which ain’t an easy thing to come by. This is the best our relationship has ever been. I can’t mess it up.”

Jay shifts in his seat. “That’s true. I just hate seeing you so rundown.”

Ben flashes Jay a weary smile. “You and me both, mate. And all this work is keeping me away from Lexi. I haven't spent a proper day with her in weeks.”

“It’ll all work out. I know it will,” Jay says with a warm smile.

“I sure hope so,” Ben replies. He goes to rub his face but winces as his fingers strike the cut on his cheek.

Jay shakes his head. “What idiot did you have to deal with this time?”

Ben scoffs. “James Wilson. Didn’t have the money.”

“Bastard.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Ben extracts a thick envelope and places it on the table. “Until this morning,” he declares with a grin.

Jay gives a low whistle. “I forgot how much he owed us. Makes that little scuffle worth it, ay?”

“The night wasn’t all bad,” Ben muses. “I pulled.”

“Spare me the details.”

Ben presses a hand to his chest, feigning shock. “What? But it was _hot.”_

Jay pulls a face. “I’m happy for you, mate, but I don’t wanna know.”

Ignoring Jay completely, Ben continues. “Let me set the scene for you. Dark alley, no one around. He’s got one hand on my face and the other down my—”

“I’m eating here!” Jay protests. He reaches across the table to smack Ben on the shoulder, who laughs.

“I mean, really! Do I bang on about what Lola and I get up to? No!” Jay exclaims. 

“And thank God for that!” Ben continues to laugh. “I try to keep heterosexual nonsense to a minimum in my life.”

“Yeah, ha-ha, very funny,” Jay deadpans, but a begrudging smile grows on his face. “You’re chaotic, you know that?”

Ben reigns himself in so he can continue to eat his breakfast. “You know me. Full of natural energy.”

“That’s one way of saying it,” Jay remarks.

Ben winks at him. “So, Jay, I was thinking… why don’t you come along to a collection tonight?”

Jay rubs the back of his neck. “I dunno, Ben, that ain’t really my strength. You’re the intimidating one.”

“Oh, come on!” Ben glances around the cafe before leaning in close, voice dropping to a whisper. “You know how to get rid of a body. I’d say that’s pretty intimidating.”

Jay still looks unsure.

“Aren’t you tired of working around dead people all day?” Ben points out. “Let’s get you out of the parlor for a bit. The fresh air would do you a world of good.”

Jay sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling. “Alright, I’ll go. Do I need to come prepared?”

Ben leans back in his chair, hand drifting under his suit jacket to feel the hidden gun pressed to his side in its shoulder holster.

“Just in case. We can never be too careful.”

***

Callum whistles to himself as he strolls through the square at a casual pace. The lateness of the hour drapes it in darkness, broken only by the lamp posts that offer warm light. He was more than happy to take the late patrol shift when Jack asked him. It’s peaceful to walk alone and have some time to himself to gather his thoughts, especially after a busy day.

His first full day of the Mitchell investigation has gone surprisingly well. He deployed his team of officers to various locations in hopes of obtaining some information. He’s not too concerned with uncovering some huge find just yet; the work has barely just begun. But he feels confident in the abilities of his team and knows they can get the job done. 

The first thing Callum did was get another corkboard and pin the photograph of Ben Mitchell right in the middle. An inexplicable feeling tells him that Ben is the key to all of it, although he has no concrete evidence as to why. There’s just something about him that stays with Callum, like an itch he can’t scratch. Something in his eyes and his smile that hints at the secrets of a hidden world, existing underneath the rest of society like a slumbering snake, waiting to be awoken.

He just has to be careful when it bares its fangs and strikes. 

Callum rounds a corner and decides to head down near the playground. That area is usually empty this time of night, but it’s worth a look.

The playground is eerily quiet at night, draped in shadows and empty of the joyous cries of children that fill it during the day. The swings hang still, only swaying slightly in the breeze. There’s something that doesn’t feel real about being in a place that doesn’t exist in its usual state, like they’re trespassing into a world where they don’t belong.

But they do belong. Ben owns this square. The streets he prowls at night like a predator are subject to his rule, and anyone who crosses his path should know to bow their head. This is his home, his domain. He doesn’t care if he doesn’t fully own it yet; his father still keeps him gripped tightly in his iron fist. 

But that arrangement won’t last forever. Not if Ben has anything to say about it.

Jay hugs his arms to his chest and exhales heavily. Ben can tell he’s getting impatient by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Where is he?” Jay asks, eyes sweeping back and forth across the empty street.

Ben flips the collar of his coat up against the cold. “He’ll be here,” he says, pulling his shoulders back with a confidence he feels deep in his bones. “They always show up.”

Jay smiles, unable to argue with Ben’s logic. “Ain’t that the truth.” He perks up a bit and points across the playground. “There’s the little bugger now.”

The client walks toward them with quick steps. Tommy Lewis, thirty-three years old, construction worker. After a bad business investment, he was left scrambling to find money. The Mitchells were more than happy to help, and he’s been indebted to them ever since.

“Evening, Tommy,” Jay says, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. He stands shoulder to shoulder with Ben, his stance relaxed but still intimidating. He’s tall and thin, but lithe like a cat, standing alert and practically daring Tommy to test him.

Tommy reaches into his coat and pulls out an envelope. He hands it to Ben without making eye contact, his head ducked. 

Ben takes it with a smile. “Good man,” he says, holding the envelope aloft and waving it once.

“I’ll be going now, Ben,” Tommy says, and he makes to walk away.

“I don’t think so.” Ben grabs Tommy by the arm and pulls him back. When Tommy raises his head to look at Ben, there’s a flash of panic in his eyes.

“I need to make sure you’re paid in full,” Ben says slowly. “It’s just business.”

Tommy nods and stuffs his hands into his coat pockets.

Ben opens the envelope, extracts the bills inside, and starts to rifle through them. When he gets to the end of the pile, he licks his lips.

“Oh, Tommy.” Ben lets out a long-suffering sigh and shakes his head.

Tommy looks at him with wide eyes. “What? What is it?”

Ben clicks his tongue. “You’re short.” 

“Ben, you have to listen to me, please.”

“Oh, here we go,” Ben says, rolling his eyes. “Here comes the sob story. You gonna cry?”

Tommy scrubs a hand across his mouth. “That’s all I can give you right now. I don’t get paid for another two weeks! I’ve got a _family,_ Ben.”

“Yeah? So do I,” Ben retorts. “If you really cared about them, you wouldn’t be putting yourself in this situation right now.”

“I’ve got no more money to give you!” Tommy says, his voice creeping into panicked tones. “I-I don’t know what else to do!”

“Yard sale?” Ben shrugs. “Hock your watch? There’s plenty of options.”

“Ben, please, I—”

“I ain’t interested in your excuses,” Ben cuts him off, his voice calm and steely. “We’ve already given you an extra month to get the payment together, and now you don’t got it. I can’t allow that.”

Tommy ducks his head, at a loss for words.

“Well,” Ben drawls, “If you’re short on money, maybe you ain’t short in…” He looks Tommy up and down once before settling his gaze on Tommy’s face. “Other areas.”

Tommy’s head snaps up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m a generous man, Tommy,” Ben says, and he presses a hand to his chest. “I might be willing to take a cut off your payment under the right circumstances.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

Ben takes a step forward and grabs the lapels of Tommy’s coat. “I reckon you and I could have a bit of fun together.” His gaze drops to Tommy’s lips and he lets it linger there for a few moments before rising to Tommy’s eyes again.

Tommy lets out a short, shocked laugh. “Are you joking?”

“Two things I never joke about are money and sex,” Ben says matter-of-factly. “And here we are talking about both.”

Shaking his head back and forth, Tommy looks at Ben like he’s insane. “Are you crazy, Ben?” He asks. “I’ve got a wife, a daughter!”

_“I’ve_ got a daughter, mate!” Ben cracks a smile. “Unless you get _your_ daughter to bake some cookies for a little bake sale, I’m your best option.”

“Get off me!” Tommy yells, and he shoves Ben away. 

Ben sighs. “I’m only trying to help.”

Tommy reaches into his jacket, pulls out a gun, and aims it at Ben. Jay immediately puts his hands up in the air, but Ben doesn’t move. 

“I see,” Ben says slowly. “You’ve got a gun and now you’re a big man, ay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy replies. “That’s right.”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s a tool, just like any other. It’s the meaning behind it that matters.”

Tommy looks taken aback. “What?”

“If you really wanted to use it, you wouldn’t be hesitating,” Ben says. 

“I’m not,” Tommy fires back, his voice wavering a bit.

Ben huffs out a laugh. “If it was me holding the gun, I’d have shot you by now.”

“I ain’t like you, Ben!” 

Taking a step forward, Ben brings his face close to Tommy’s. “Yeah, you ain’t,” he whispers with a sneer. 

Callum sees the playground ahead, and he frowns when he sees three people standing near each other. 

“What are you all doing?” He murmurs to himself. 

Callum cranes his neck, trying to see what’s happening, and his stomach drops once he sees the unmistakable form of a man holding a gun. 

His mouth goes dry as he reaches for his holster with trembling fingers. In his nearly four years with the force, he’s never had to draw his gun. There’s never been a need to, not when his days are filled with patrols and handling minor incidents around the square. 

It’s not that he doesn’t know how to use it; he’s gone through all the necessary training and visited the shooting range multiple times. But there’s a huge difference between shooting at the blank surface of a target and a real human being. 

And how can he forget his years in the army. 

He was a soldier. He went to war. The memories still haunt him, plaguing his dreams and rearing their ugly heads whenever he comes across even the slightest reminder.

Just because Callum knows how to use guns doesn’t mean he likes them.

He takes in a deep breath to steady himself and remembers his training. Jack told him that drawing your gun should almost always be saved as a last resort measure, and every good officer should try to use diplomatic reasoning first, unless the situation endangers the officer’s life or other people.

Now, there are people in danger. Callum has no idea what they’ve done to merit having a gun pulled on them, but he can’t allow them to be hurt. Not when he can do something about it, no matter how the thought sets his nerves on edge and makes his stomach clench painfully. 

Callum draws his gun and holds it aloft, cocked and ready to fire. He advances quickly, moving as quietly as he can as he enters the playground.

“Police! Freeze!”

All three men look over to see a boy in blue coming towards them, gun drawn and aimed right at them.

Ben whirls on Tommy, seething with anger. “You grassed!” He growls.

Tommy looks shocked. “I didn’t! I wouldn’t!” 

“Drop the gun!” Callum shouts.

There’s a brief moment seemingly frozen in time, where nobody moves. Ben is running every possible option in his head, Jay is reaching for his own weapon, and Tommy makes a decision.

_CRACK._

The bullet strikes Callum directly in his left thigh, and he screams in pain. Gun falling from limp fingers, he collapses on the ground, clutching his wound.

Ben’s eyes widen in shock. “You _idiot!”_ He shouts at Tommy, who looks equally horrified by his actions. His eyes dart from the fallen copper to Ben, and then he makes a run for it.

Panic floods through Callum like waves crashing on the shore. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, feeling like it might burst through. He presses both hands to the wound, trying to put pressure on it, but blood rushes between his fingers in a steady flow.

He can’t move. He can’t think. He’s never experienced this type of pain before, red-hot and so intense that it takes his breath away and brings stinging tears to his eyes.

Jay grabs for Ben, hands gripping his leather-clad arm tightly. “We need to go, now!”

Ben, still a bit stunned, only nods. He and Jay quickly run away, leaving the bloody scene behind them.

Callum manages to prop himself up on one elbow, and his eyes find the two remaining people escaping.

“I’ve seen you!” Callum cries out. “Do you hear me? I’ve seen your faces!”

It’s a desperate lie, practically dragged out of Callum’s mouth, but he has to try. He needs to make himself appear less than completely helpless. Maybe he won’t strike fear into the hearts of hardened criminals, but he could at least give them a moment of pause. They can’t scurry back into the shadows, not when an officer of the law knows who they are.

A burning surge of pain sears down Callum’s leg, and he collapses flat on his back with a pained cry.

Ben stops short, the words ringing in his ears. His eyes find Jay, also frozen in place. 

They both know the danger of being known. If a police officer knows who they are, they can be identified and explicitly linked to the scene of the crime. 

Ben has been playing this game far too long to be taken down by a fucking copper. 

“What do we do?” Jay asks, his eyes wide with uncertainty.

Ben licks his lips, knowing that time is slipping through his fingers like sand from a broken hourglass. They have two problems on their hands: the traitorous client and the copper. Their window of opportunity to do anything about either situation is rapidly closing. 

“Go after Tommy. I’ll deal with the copper,” Ben instructs, his voice calm and steady despite the panic of the situation.

“What should I do when I catch the little bugger?” 

Ben flicks his thumb across his throat.

Jay’s face darkens with an unspoken understanding. Jaw clenching, he draws his gun and loads it with a soft clicking noise.

Ben claps a hand to Jay’s shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. They both know what’s coming. It’s a situation they’ve both found themselves in too many times to recall, but their experience doesn’t make each new occasion any less pleasant.

Jay nods once, and his eyes glitter with a spark of determination. Then he runs off into the night, gun cocked and ready to fire.

Callum draws in another gasping breath. He can barely hear it over the thundering rush of blood in his ears. His heart pounds wildly against his chest, and he fears it might burst through. 

Then Callum thinks he hears the sound of footsteps thudding across the mulch of the playground.

A figure comes into view, someone who towers over him, his face completely obscured by the shadows. 

“Can you stand?” 

It’s a man speaking, his voice low and urgent. Callum opens his mouth to tell him no, but his words are stolen by an involuntary groan as his leg gives a particularly painful throb.

The man lets out a little irritated huff. “Course not.”

Before Callum can protest, the man kneels down and slips his arms under Callum’s armpits from behind, hands pressing securely to Callum’s chest. 

“Don’t fight me,” the man says firmly, and Callum knows it’s a command. Then he rises halfway to his full height and starts to pull Callum along the ground. The jostling movement makes his leg throb with each bump, but he bites his lip to keep himself from crying out.

Callum’s back hits the short brick wall that runs around the playground. He’s propped up into a sitting position by the unknown man, legs stretched out in front of him. Callum presses both hands to his leg again, face screwing up in pain, but he pushes harder. 

The man kneels down at Callum’s side, and the streetlight floods his face with a warm glow, illuminating his features. Callum’s breath hitches as his eyes take in not the face of a stranger, but of someone he knows.

Tousled hair and eyebrows pulled together over a pair of brilliant blue eyes that seem to stare into Callum’s soul. Stubble drapes the strong line of his jaw in a slight shadow, and his cheeks are adorned with a cut and a bruise apiece, which suit him perfectly.

It’s _him_ , and undeniably so. Callum looks up into the face that has been staring back at him from a photograph.

But this is no black and white picture. This is colors and dimensions that can only exist in reality. 

Ben Mitchell.

“Y-you,” Callum stutters, and his shocked exhale hangs in the cold air. 

Then it dissipates and Ben is staring at him with a look that speaks in several emotions. Seriousness, a touch of irritation, and a nearly overwhelming sense of curiosity that threatens to erase all other sentiment from his face.

“Me?” Ben asks, tilting his head to the side. A shudder goes through Callum’s body, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being preyed upon.

But of course he is. What’s a single police officer to a mob boss, let alone one of the most notorious in all of London? A badge means nothing to a man who makes his living by breaking the law and rejecting authority. Callum is the prey, weak and wounded, and Ben is the predator, honed in and ready to strike.

“How do you know me?” Ben asks. One corner of his mouth curves up into the smirk that Callum has come to know by heart.

“You’re one of them.” Callum finds it hard to breathe in their closeness, his mind in a state of complete disbelief that this moment is really unfolding. 

“You’re a Mitchell.”

The smirk slides off Ben’s face, leaving his lips parted and mouth slack with surprise. Tension spreads through his body, tightening his muscles and putting him on edge, and Ben goes completely still as he draws in a carefully measured breath to steady himself. 

It’s not a surprise that the copper recognizes him. He’s seen his file, his wanted poster, his mugshot. His face is surely plastered all over the police station. But there’s something about being recognized as a Mitchell that makes Ben go still with a quiet, seething anger that casts a fine red mist across his vision. 

“I’m not a _Mitchell_ by choice,” he replies, practically spitting the name like it holds a foul taste on his tongue. 

A shiver goes down Callum’s spine, and there’s a sudden chill in the night air that he hadn’t felt before, brought on by the abrupt shift in Ben’s demeanor. His jaw is clenched tight, a muscle pulled taut, mouth set in a thin, angry line. Then Callum notices something that throws him off. There’s pain in Ben’s eyes, nothing more than a flicker, but one that hints at a world of hurt. Even in the darkness, it shines, and Callum is taken aback.

Something is hidden behind those captivating blue eyes, tucked so far away that no one could ever reach it. A history, something fraught with strife and all having to do with the Mitchell name. 

Callum finds himself both terrified and intrigued. The confident glint he saw in the photograph pales in comparison to the sheer depth of emotion he now sees as he stares into Ben’s very real eyes.

Callum inhales shakily, his stomach suddenly uneasy. “My mistake.”

Ben grabs the copper by the front of his stupid police vest and brings their faces close together. Callum can see all the tiny details of his face, like a faint scar on his upper lip and a birthmark on his right cheek. His nostrils flare with breathing that’s obviously being controlled very carefully, and the air ghosts across Callum’s upper lip.

“This is the first and last time you make that mistake,” Ben says, his voice dangerously soft like the calm before a storm. 

Callum nods. “Understood.”

Ben lets go, and his gaze remains on Callum’s face for a few moments before dropping to his leg. He pries the copper’s hands away to get a look at the wound, and it’s nasty. Close-range gunshot wounds always look so rough.

“What’s going to happen to that man?”

Blue eyes meet Callum’s once more, and this time they flash with irritation. “It ain’t really your concern, is it?” Ben replies, sarcasm dripping from his evasive words. He shakes his head and returns his attention to the wound, which continues to bleed steadily.

Callum glances down at his leg, a choice he immediately regrets. Nausea overtakes him, and he resists the urge to vomit. 

“Is he— is he going to die?” Callum grits out through clenched teeth.

Ben’s eyes narrow and his lips pull into a cruel smile. “That information is above your pay grade. Besides, the only death you should be concerned about is your own, ay, mate?”

A flicker of indignance rises through the swirling panic and sickness inside Callum. “I’m not your mate,” he snaps. 

Ben scoffs. “Fine by me. You’re not really my type anyway—” His eyes find the name badge pinned to the front of the copper’s uniform.

“Highway,” Ben finishes with a smug look.

Callum’s lower lip trembles slightly. Even if it’s just his last name, he hates the way it sounds in Ben’s voice, like he owns it and can do anything he wants with it. 

Callum jumps as Ben cups his neck with one hand.

“Calm down,” Ben scolds, “I’m only finding your pulse.” His fingers trail across Callum’s skin and press under his jaw. 

Ben’s fingers are cold, and Callum can’t help but recoil a bit. Ben ignores the reaction and shifts their positioning a bit until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Right,” Ben says, hand leaving Callum’s skin, “Your heart is going a million miles an hour. You’ve got to calm down or you’ll bleed to death.”

In response, Callum’s heart beats impossibly faster. “Is that supposed to make me feel calm?” He asks, voice trilling up with the panic that rises in his throat.

Ben bites back a scathing comment. Now isn’t the time. “Just… take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, then let it out slowly.”

When Callum obliges, he’s surprised to find that it does make him feel a bit better. But there’s a burning question sitting on his tongue, and he can’t hold it back.

“Why did you come back?”

Ben raises his head and gives a little shrug. “It’s like you said. You saw my face. Can’t have you ratting me out.”

He reaches for Callum’s belt buckle. Breath snagging in his throat, Callum grabs Ben’s wrist tightly. Ben shakes his head, frees his wrist from Callum’s grasp, and replaces the copper’s hand back over the wound.

“Relax, I ain’t trying anything funny,” Ben teases, mouth curving into a sly grin.

Heat rises under Callum’s collar, and he feels warmth spread high on his cheeks. An irrational thought flits through his mind, one that says Ben is really quite handsome. 

Callum shakes his head. He’s lost a lot of blood, and his mind isn’t working properly. He’s bordering on delusional. That must be it. 

If drunk words are sober thoughts, then what are delusional thoughts? Hidden truths?

Ben undoes the buckle and strips the belt from Callum’s pants with one fluid motion. Callum’s cheeks are burning now, and he’s thankful for the darkness of the night.

“Are you impressed?” Ben’s voice rings with dulcet tones like sweet forbidden fruit. He’s messing with Callum, testing his limits to see how far he can push. It’s invasive, how he just appeared in Callum’s life and now seems content to stay.

For all the unease he feels, Callum can’t help the curiosity that grows with each passing moment. He has nothing but questions, ones he knows Ben won’t answer, so he keeps them to himself. 

Nothing makes sense. Ben is a mob boss, yet he stayed behind to help a police officer, when he could have escaped. What’s one death to Ben, whose hands are no doubt filthy with it? If anything, it would be a triumph; one less boy in blue on the streets, one less potential interference with his business. 

Ben is a walking enigma of contradictions, and nothing could have prepared Callum for this.

“Why are you helping me?”

In the middle of slipping the belt around Highway’s thigh, Ben pauses to look at him properly. His brows are furrowed with pain and confusion, and Ben can practically see the gears turning in his head.

Truth be told, Ben isn’t entirely sure himself. The mob mindset, so deeply ingrained in his body and mind, tells him to finish the job. Eliminate a potential threat. Ben should have already done it.

But he can’t bring himself to do it.

Every fiber of his being screams at him to pull his gun and shoot, to end the copper’s life right then and there, but Ben fights the urge with all his might. This man doesn’t deserve to die. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, outnumbered and unprepared to handle a run-in with the mob.

Ben could run away right now. He could leave the copper to bleed out in the park, then read about his death in next morning’s newspaper over a cup of coffee. He’s seen plenty of deaths. Caused plenty, too. It shouldn’t bother him.

But it _would._

What little morality he has left is drowned out by the mob mentality once more. He can’t leave. If he does, and the copper miraculously survives, he’ll go down. He can’t take that risk.

He has to take matters into his own hands, gain control of the situation and shape it to his benefit. 

“Let’s go over this again, shall we?” Ben looks the man dead in the eyes. “You’ve seen my face. You know who I am. So I’m in a position to make you a deal.”

Highway’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t think that you—”

“You listen to me very carefully, yeah?” Ben interrupts. 

Highway looks startled, but he stays quiet and nods.

“I’m gonna patch you up, free of charge.” Ben flashes a smile. “And then I’m gonna leave. When your backup gets here, you tell them that you fixed yourself up.”

“What?”

“It’s simple. You got shot, kept a cool head, and saved yourself. Me and my friend were never here, and you most definitely did not see me.”

Highway’s lips press into a thin line. “And if I don’t?”

All the pleasantness drops from Ben’s face. “Then I let you bleed you out right here, which would be much easier for me. You go to the grave with my little business deal intact, and trust me, I wouldn’t be losing any sleep over your death.”

Callum swallows hard. There’s no flicker of doubt in Ben’s face, no teasing glint in his eyes. He’s completely serious, and Callum would be a fool to call his bluff.

Ben raises his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

His fingers are stained with Callum’s blood. If that isn’t a binding pact, nothing is.

Inhaling deeply, Callum grabs Ben’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “Deal,” he rasps.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Ben quips. 

Then without warning, he tightens the belt.

Callum gasps and grabs for the closest thing, which turns out to Ben’s forearm. The sleeve of the leather jacket is cool under his fingers, and he can’t help but notice how well it sits on Ben’s broad shoulders. 

Ben looks at his handiwork for a few seconds before shaking his head. “Nope, we need a proper tourniquet.” He undoes the belt and tosses it aside, uttering a heartfelt curse. 

His words sound strange in Callum’s ears, like they’re coming from far away. His entire body feels heavy, and there’s a deep-seated cold that curls in his chest and is slowly starting to spread.

His fingers feel numb as he reaches for his radio, realizing that he hasn’t called for backup yet. He mumbles into the radio, saying he’s been hurt and he needs backup. No correct police terminology, no codes. Just a weak, desperate plea for help.

Eyelids fluttering, he sees Ben dart around, clearly looking for something, his head sweeping back and forth as he searches the ground. He pumps his fist when he finds it, then hurries back over to Callum.

“I’m… make… stop… bleeding.”

Callum only catches bits and pieces of what Ben’s saying. Unable to move or speak, he can only watch as Ben unwinds his scarf from his neck and wraps it around Callum’s thigh, a few inches above the bullet wound. It’s still bleeding, and Callum can feel the blood soaking through his pant leg as it collects in a puddle underneath him.

The stars shine brightly in the sky above him. A laugh bubbles up in Callum’s throat, and it comes out as a breathy huff. At least he’s looking at something pretty before he dies. 

Warm fingers press to Callum’s cheek, gently tugging his face down. His eyes fall on Ben, who looks concerned. His blue eyes are dark with worry that Callum wishes he could wipe away. 

Ben’s lips move rapidly on words that Callum can’t hear. 

Callum wishes he didn’t look so upset. It’s fine, he’s fine. He’s only been shot. Tilting his head back, he looks up at the sky once more.

Ben inserts the stick he found into a fold of the scarf and starts to turn it to apply pressure. He looks at Highway again, who’s looking up at the sky with a dazed smile, and Ben curses. He’s lost a lot of blood, probably too much, and he’s starting to lose himself. 

Moving as fast and safely as he can, Ben finishes off the tourniquet and secures it in place. To his relief, it seems to do the job, and the steady flow of blood slows significantly.

Ben grips the collar of Highway’s shirt and gives it a gentle shake. Callum slowly lowers his head to look at Ben, who appears to be shouting now, but he hears nothing over the ringing in his ears.

Each inhale of breath hurts. As Callum draws in his next, hoping it won’t be his last, it hitches. He was wrong. The stars he thought he saw in the sky above sparkle in Ben’s eyes.

“Beautiful,” Callum mumbles. 

Ben’s face creases with obvious confusion, but then his expression softens. He presses one hand flat to Callum’s chest, right over his heart, and leaves it there for a couple moments. Something unspoken passes between them, tangible but fragile, like it would shatter at the slightest touch. Perhaps a truce, a silent understanding that they both reached. 

  
Callum wills his arm to move, but the limb is like a dead weight that fights his best efforts. He wants to cover Ben’s hand with his own, to speak through a gesture when words fail him.

But Ben pulls his hand away, breaking the contact between them. He looks at Callum one last time, and an infinity of wordless meanings travels between their gazes. 

Then Ben is running off into the night, his figure growing smaller until it’s swallowed up by the darkness.

When the ambulance arrives a few minutes later, sirens wailing, Callum can barely hear them. His vision swims in and out of focus, the faces that appear above his own blending into one indiscernible mass of color. 

He feels the hands of the paramedics on him, and the cool edges of a breathing mask pressing on his face. The jostle of the stretcher as he’s put on it, then again as it’s lifted into the ambulance.

Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision, and his heavy eyelids finally fall shut. 

Lips that curve into a crooked smile. Hands that have killed, moving gently around an injury they didn’t cause. Blue eyes that shine with an emotion that can’t be placed. 

_Ben._

Then Callum slips into unconsciousness and the darkness fully takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise that callum will be okay! that was quite the first meeting for him and ben...
> 
> thanks for reading <3
> 
> twitter - @spielsonian  
> tumblr - @maryatthecomiccon


	3. unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben has business to deal with, and he's determined to get his way. While Callum is laid up in the hospital, he has a lot on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! a few important notes first:
> 
> callum has a nightmare in this chapter (i've put it in italics so it's easier to skip) and there's brief mention of his PTSD, so please read with caution if you're sensitive to those things. also, this is a warning for some violence.
> 
> as always, i hope you enjoy! <3

The return to consciousness is a gradual ascent through an all-encompassing darkness. Callum feels himself waking up, and although he keeps his eyes closed, he can hear the world moving around him in the quiet humming of machines and a soft beeping sound.

When Callum first slipped under, the darkness was terrifying, swallowing him up with no guarantee that it would ever let him go. Now, after spending so long wrapped in its embrace, it feels comforting. He feels warm, and safe, and secure, like nothing can hurt him anymore.

But he has to get up. He has to face the real world again. 

Callum’s eyes slowly flutter open to reveal a blank space of white. He squints against the brightness, completely unaccustomed to it. As his eyes adjust, he realizes that he’s in a hospital room. 

There’s a strange feeling in his nose that he can’t place. Callum slowly raises his hand to his face, and his fingers fall upon a pair of thin tubes, one coming out of each nostril. He follows the tubes to feel them tucked behind his ears. When he looks at his hand, he sees an IV taped to the back of it.

That tells him he was in bad shape, and very well still could be. Callum has no idea how long he’s been asleep. The last thing he can remember is passing out in the ambulance, and everything that happened after is a gap in his memory. He needs someone to tell him what happened, and what the next steps are. 

He feels completely drained. His entire body feels like dead weight, his limbs limp and useless. An ache has settled deep in his bones, dragging him down and sapping what little energy he still possesses. His head feels heavy, like a fog is clouding his mind, probably from whatever drugs they’ve been giving him through the IV.

When Callum tries to shift into a more upright position, pain flares in his leg, centered on a specific point in his thigh. It takes his breath away, waxing and waning then surging again with surprising strength. With a rattle he manages to suck in a breath. 

“Fuck,” Callum rasps. With a prolonged groan, he pushes himself upward, towards the pillow. Sweat breaks out across his forehead and upper lip from the effort, but he manages to more or less prop himself up. He’s exhausted now, but the pain seemingly broke through the haze over his thoughts.

Then it all comes back to him.

The playground. The gunshot.

And then _him._

Ben’s face swims to the front of Callum’s mind. The cocky smirk that softened into something more genuine. His hands, warm as they touched Callum’s face and steady as they moved carefully around the wound. 

Callum rubs at his temples. The universe has to playing a cruel prank on him. The odds of starting an investigation on a mob boss and then meeting him that same day are astronomical. And now he’s injured and laid up in a hospital bed with no hope of returning to work anytime soon. 

Anger flares up inside Callum. He finally got the chance he’d been waiting for, only to have it ripped away. Nearly four years with the police and he’s never asked for a promotion or a big case. Most of his willingness to stay down comes from his own internal struggles and fears of what could happen if he did make a change from working in the square, but part of it was his firm belief in waiting for the right moment to ask for a chance. And now it’s gone, or at least put on hiatus for an unknown amount of time. 

What were the mob members playing at, anyway? Meeting in the middle of a children’s playground in the dead of night. Callum’s no gangster, but he can safely assume you shouldn’t be conducting business out in the open like that. 

He’s angry at Ben, too, even if he supposes he shouldn’t be. Ben did save his life, but it was also his people that got him hurt in the first place. Wielding guns like kids with toys, reckless and irresponsible. 

Callum feels conflicted. He got shot, yes, but it’s also what brought Ben to him. And maybe _that’s_ the chance he’s been waiting for. He swore his silence to Ben, but he refuses to believe that Ben would simply take his word and move on. Surely the mob boss wants to ensure that the mouth of a potential grass is taped shut. 

Or maybe Ben helped Callum to save his own skin, and has no further use for him now. Heaving a deep sigh, Callum rubs at his tired eyes. This much thinking is too strenuous for his exhausted body and mind. 

“You’re awake!”

Callum turns his head to see a nurse entering the room, a smile on her face. She walks over to his bedside and checks the readings of the various machines, scribbling notes down on her clipboard.

“How long…” Callum pauses to take a breath. “How long was I out?”

“Nearly a whole day,” the nurse replies. “You were barely hanging onto consciousness when we got you. We put you under anaesthesia to perform the surgery, and gave you a sedative to keep you asleep while your body recovered from the initial shock.”

Her words sound strange in Callum’s ears. “Surgery?” He mumbles. 

The nurse nods. “The doctor removed the bullet from your leg, then closed the wound. Thankfully, the bullet stayed intact when you were shot. Shrapnel might have struck an artery.”

The unspoken meaning is clear. Callum could have died. 

“I see,” he says quietly.

“We can take this out now.” The nurse gently removes the breathing tube from Callum’s nose, and he shudders as it leaves his body. He inhales deeply through his nose and lets it out slowly, thankful that he can breathe on his own. 

“I have to tell you, you’re a very smart young man!” 

Callum’s eyebrows furrow. “I am?”

The nurse nods. “It’s the tourniquet that really saved you. It was nearly perfect! If you hadn’t done that, and I hate to tell you this, but you most likely would’ve bled out.”

A pair of hands, gentle but firm as they handled the wound to stop the bleeding. Bright blue eyes staring into Callum’s own, silently pleading him to hold on. An inexplicable sense of safety at the mercy of a dangerous man.

_Ben._

“I’m glad it was there,” Callum replies, neither confirming nor denying his involvement. 

The nurse looks a bit confused, but she doesn’t press the issue further. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call for you?”

Ben’s name is the first one that pops into Callum’s head, and he blinks in surprise. He’s embarrassed he thought of the mobster so instinctively, like a gut reaction that just felt right. A hot, prickly wave of shame washes over him as he realizes he thought of Ben before _Whitney._ His girlfriend, the person he loves more than anyone. What the hell is wrong with him?

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have Ben’s number, or any way of contacting him. And Ben doesn’t care about him. But Whitney does, and he cares about her, even if he knows it’s not in the way he should. 

“Yeah… my brother,” Callum says. Stuart is the only family he’s got, and he should be the first to know.

“And… my girlfriend?” The word feels wrong coming off his lips, and his stomach clenches. 

The nurse smiles knowingly. “Sure thing. I’ll get their numbers from you and call them in a little bit. But first, you actually have a visitor now.”

“I do?”

“A Mr. Jack Branning?”

Callum smiles weakly. “That’s my boss. Can I see him now?”

“Sure. I’ll go fetch him.”

Jack bounds into the room with a sense of urgency, wasting no time in reaching Callum’s bedside.

“How are you feeling?” Jack puts a gentle hand on Callum’s shoulder. 

Callum manages to give a tiny shrug. “Alright.”

“God, Callum, I…” Jack sighs and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Callum looks down. “It’s okay.”

“You know it’s not.” Jack gives Callum’s shoulder a squeeze. “A police officer shot right out in the open? It’s ridiculous!”

Callum nods in agreement but doesn’t say anything.

Jack looks at him carefully. “Look, police business is the last thing you should be worried about right now, but… did you get a look at the person who shot you? Anything we can use to track them down?”

“No,” Callum replies, and it’s the truth. The only face he saw was Ben’s, but he can’t say anything about that. He tries to push away the immense feeling of guilt he feels about withholding information from Jack, but he has no choice. No matter how much he hates it, he made a promise to Ben that he has to keep if he wants to keep his life.

Jack looks slightly unconvinced, but he appears willing to let the matter drop. “Well, like I said, don’t worry about that now. We can take a proper statement once you’re back on your feet.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Before I go…” Jack leaves the room and re-enters carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“What the—” Callum can’t help when his jaw drops in surprise. The bouquet is _massive,_ with all kinds of flowers: roses, daisies, tulips, sunflowers, lilies. They’re all clustered together in a big explosion of color, tucked inside a fancy glass vase wrapped up in a big red bow.

Jack grunts as he sets the bouquet down on the bedside table. “Bit ridiculous, innit?”

“But who…” Callum runs his fingers across the soft petals of a daisy. “Who sent these?”

Jack shrugs. “No one knows. They turned up at the station with no note, only instructions to deliver them to you.”

Callum shakes his head in disbelief.

“Do you have a secret admirer I don’t know about?” Jack teases.

“No!” Callum says, a little too quickly and a little too loudly. Jack looks a bit alarmed, and Callum clears his throat.

“Jack, about work—”

Jack raises a hand. “Don’t do that to yourself. All I want you to focus on right now is resting and getting better.” One corner of his mouth twitches. “And that’s an order.”

Callum gives a half-hearted salute, and Jack laughs. 

“You’ve got nothing urgent to run back to. It’s not like you made a breakthrough with the Mitchell case on your first day!”

There’s a brief pause, silence hanging uncomfortably in the air.

Callum forces a laugh. “Yeah, thankfully.”

“I’ll head out. Seems like you’ve got some detective work to do.” Jack nods at the bouquet before walking out of the hospital room.

Callum watches him go, waiting until the door closes behind him. Then he turns his attention to the bouquet, brows pinching together as he thinks. Who could have sent this? No one he knows has this kind of money to splash out on such extravagance. It must be from someone wealthy, but who could that be?

A sneaking suspicion nags at Callum, but he refuses to think about it. It can’t be.

As he runs his fingers across the flowers, enjoying the velvety texture of their soft petals, something catches his eye. Looking closer, he sees something small and white wrapped around the stem of one of the sunflowers in the middle of the bouquet, effectively hidden.

Callum reaches for it and discovers that it’s a small slip of paper. He pulls it off then quickly glances around to make sure the door stays closed. He unravels the paper to reveal a note written in small, messy handwriting:

_I didn’t know what kind of flowers you like, so I got you all of them. Hope the leg feels better._

_B.M._

“Bastard,” Callum whispers.

And there it is. He was right, and he hates that he is.

Ben Mitchell sent him flowers. That sentence shouldn’t exist. Ben wasn’t the one who shot him, and that fact aside, he saved Callum’s life. He got the deal he wanted when Callum promised his silence, so he doesn’t owe Callum anything. 

None of it makes sense. The mob boss Callum thought he knew is a convicted criminal who spent multiple years in prison. Not a man who saves the life of a worthless copper and then sends him flowers.

Groaning, Callum scrubs a hand across his face and sinks back into his pillow. Things just got more complicated than he ever imagined they would. 

***

One glance around the walls of the office tells the life story of its owner. Family photographs, framed business licenses, and a shelf filled with boxing trophies. Stacks of paperwork and random tools clutter the surfaces of tables, and a knowing eye would recognize a weapons cabinet along the far wall. 

It’s a space that Ben knows by heart. He knows every trick and secret of the room, all hidden under the guise of a businessman’s workplace. The mundane outward appearance is false, and if these four walls could talk, they would scream about the horrors they’ve witnessed. Blood can be washed away and evidence can be burned, but the memories will always remain, woven into the fabric of the room that seems to breathe with a life of its own.

The radio on the desk is on, broadcasting some upbeat jazz tune to which Ben can’t help but tap his toes. He grew up on show tunes and the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra, and music has always been a special form of escape and expression.

Jay stands to Ben’s left, his body still and rigid like a statue. “Stop that,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Lighten up, would you?” Ben spins around once on his heels at a particularly fun burst of saxophone, enjoying the sound the soles of his dress shoes make on the hardwood. He winces when he notices the black scuff it left on the floor, and he hopes his father won’t notice, even though he will.

Nothing slips past Phil Mitchell.

Jay licks his lips, and Ben can tell he’s nervous. His hands are clasped tightly behind his back, but he sways back and forth on his feet.

“Jay, relax.” Ben claps a firm hand to Jay’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I’m sure this isn’t a big deal.”

Jay levels a sideways glance at Ben. “You don’t know that. We _never_ get called to his office. So this is about something very bad—”

“Or very good!” Ben interrupts cheerfully. He taps his foot to the beginning steps of an otherwise long-forgotten routine. 

Huffing in irritation, Jay gives Ben a little shove. “Would you stop all that nonsense?”

“It relaxes me,” Ben rebutts, wounded.

“Well, it sets my teeth on edge,” Jay snaps. 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Save the drama queen routine for me, yeah? Can’t have you stealing my thunder.”

For all the carelessness with which Ben treats the current situation, he does feel nervous. Phil hardly ever meets with mob members; he trusts them to handle their responsibilities and carry out their jobs in a timely manner. Jay is right, although Ben refuses to admit it. If Phil wants to see them, he’s not happy. 

The glaringly obvious answer is the happenings of the previous night, but really, they weren’t strictly Ben’s fault. Tommy had started the conflict; all Ben wanted was his money and an easy transaction. Instead, he ended up with a shot copper and a body in the Thames. 

The radio keeps Ben rocking on his feet as he desperately tries to dispel some of his nervous energy through the movement of his body. 

And then the door opens.

“Boys.”

Ben and Jay whirl around to see Phil standing in the doorway, his imposing figure filling the entire space. Ben immediately stops dancing, and he cuts the music short by quickly flicking the off switch on the radio.

Ben clears his throat and bows his head in a show of respect. “Dad.”

Phil slams the door behind him, making Ben and Jay jump a little. Ben swallows as his father stalks into the room, making sure to keep eyes on him as he paces toward the desk.

Phil doesn’t say anything, but the defiant set of his shoulders relays his displeasure. He eases into his cushioned chair like a king sitting in his throne, ready to impose his rule on his subjects. 

“You look ridiculous,” Phil grumbles. He reaches inside his suit and extracts his cigarette case.

Ben’s brows knit together, and he looks down at himself. He finds nothing wrong with his impeccable appearance: perfectly ironed black dress shirt, black trousers that fit his legs snugly without a wrinkle, and polished black shoes. He dressed up for the occasion with the intention of conveying his unwavering loyalty to his father in any way he can, and to show that he takes all business matters seriously, even a simple meeting. 

“Pardon?” Ben asks, unsure of Phil’s meaning. Jay is, of course, draped in his pristine black suit like always, so the comment seems unwarranted.

Phil flicks open his lighter. “The dancing,” he says around the cigarette pinched between his lips. The tiny flame throws a bit of a glow on his face, illuminating the annoyance in his eyes. “What are you, a kid?”

A flash of irritation flares up in Ben, but he quickly tamps it down. Phil hands out insults like pieces of candy, and Ben is completely used to it by now. Still, each slight cuts another tiny wound into his heart, no matter how many times he tells himself that they mean nothing. 

“I’m sorry if it annoyed you,” he says flatly, the apology falling effortlessly from his lips. It’s the easiest way of dealing with Phil; admit your fault, apologize, then move on. 

Phil scoffs before taking a long drag on his cigarette. “You’re a mobster, not a ballerina. Act like it.”

Ben bites his lip to prevent a nasty comment from slipping out. “Yes, sir,” he replies automatically. 

Tilting his head back, Phil blows smoke up at the ceiling. “Have you read the paper this morning?”

Jay and Ben exchange a glance. They haven’t, but clearly there’s something that they’re unaware of.

“No, sir,” Jay says hesitantly, unsure of where this is going. 

Cigarette poised between his index finger and thumb, gray smoke curls up in front of his face as Phil levels a hard stare at Ben and Jay.

“Real hard-hitting news,” he says through his teeth.

The silence is agonizing. Ben can hear Jay gulp nervously beside him.

  
“Sir?” Ben dares to ask, his voice wavering only slightly. He rolls his neck once, trying to relieve some of the tension that has settled deep into his muscles. 

Leaning forward, Phil aggressively throws a newspaper down onto the desk. His eyes stay on Jay and Ben as they step closer for a look. The headline, splashed in bold print across the front page, practically screams up at them:

_POLICE OFFICER SHOT IN LATE-NIGHT INCIDENT_

Ben hears Jay inhale sharply, and his own breath leaves him as his stomach drops. He reads the words once, then again, over and over until they finally sink in through the numbness of shock.

“Quite the top story, ay?” Phil says, leaning forward resting his elbows on the desk. He waves his cigarette around as he speaks, making the curls of smoke dance feverishly as though the radio were still playing. 

It’s not often that Ben is left speechless, but words are nowhere to be found in this moment. In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. A gunshot in a heavily lived-in area simply doesn’t go unnoticed, not even in the dead of night. And of course there was the one who got shot. Even though Highway swore his secrecy to Ben, it’s the word of a copper, and his promise is no guarantee.

As Ben’s mind scrambles to fit the jumbled pieces together, he comes up with the best conclusion he can. If the gunshot didn’t wake people up, the ambulance certainly did. That meant paramedics, and of course, more coppers. Ben, Jay, and— unfortunately for him— Tommy, were all long gone by that point. 

The copper must have kept his word. Sure, the front page of the newspaper is more than a bit conspicuous, but Ben is certain if he read the article he would find no mention of himself, or Jay, or Tommy. It’s impossible. And even though Ben doesn’t trust the copper at all, he probably didn’t even get the chance to grass. Poor bloke most likely passed out not long after Ben left him.

Still, this is bad. The mob thrives in the underbelly of society, moving underneath like a venomous snake among people’s feet. They do their work in the shadows, where darkness can hide their deeds and loyalty is sworn in hushed whispers. Ben and Jay are two of the most prominent mob members, and secrecy is the key to their survival; they must keep their comings and goings completely hidden from prying eyes. To be attached to an incident that just made the front page puts their lives in danger, and risks exposure of the entire mob.

Jay risks a glance at Ben before looking to Phil. “Sir, I can explain—”

Phil raises a hand and Jay immediately goes silent. “Save it,” he says, his eyes fixed on Ben. 

Jay’s brows pinch together in confusion. “But—”

“You owe me nothing,” Phil continues. He gestures to Ben with his cigarette. “I know he dragged you along.”

Ben can’t help his mouth dropping open in surprise. “Now, hang on a minute!” He protests, pressing a hand flat to his chest as if to defend himself. “Jay _wanted_ to come!”

“Only because you guilted him into it, I expect,” Phil snaps. “Giving him a hard time for running the parlor again, were you?”

“NO!” Ben shouts, stunned at how unfair Phil is being. “I—”

“You can leave, Jay.” Phil easily cuts Ben off, his voice cool and firm. 

Jay hesitates, mouth working on words that don’t come out, and his gaze darts between Phil and Ben.

“Get out of here,” Ben murmurs, jaw clenched tightly, eyes never leaving his father’s face. “I’ll catch you later.”

Lips pressed in a thin line, Jay nods, and he gives Ben’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. 

Phil watches Jay leave with an amused expression, waiting until the door closes behind him to turn his attention back to Ben. His face instantly pulls into a scowl, anger bleeding from his taut features. 

“What have you done, Ben?” Phil asks, his voice dangerously soft.

Ben draws in a deep breath to steady himself. His emotions are a warring force inside him, battling each other in a desperate attempt to break free. But he can’t show it. He has to keep his face controlled and his emotions in check if he’s going to walk out of this office alive. Phil is in a dangerous mood and he knows it. Deep down, Ben knows that nothing he says will fully satisfy his father. All he can do is turn on the charm and try to talk his way out of a severe punishment. 

“Last night, Jay and I went to collect from a client,” Ben begins, speaking slowly to keep his voice steady.

“Who?” Phil immediately demands. 

“Tommy Lewis.”

Phil hums and takes another drag on his cigarette. “Did he have the money?”  
  


Ben licks his lips. “No.”

Nodding slowly, Phil scrubs a hand across his face. “Of course not.”

Ben knits his brows together. “Sir?”

“I mean, why would he?” Phil holds his hands in the air and shrugs. “You’ve already given him another fucking month to pay up. Why should he take you seriously?”

Ben’s mouth goes dry. He thought that his leniency with clients was unknown, but he was a fool for thinking Phil wouldn’t find out. There isn’t a secret that the king won’t learn, even one kept by his own son.

“That was my mistake,” Ben says quietly. “And I apologize.”

Heaving a loud sigh, Phil sets his cigarette down on the desktop ashtray. “That means nothing to me. Just another failure of yours.”

“I’ve gotten the money from every other client, even if I’ve given them an extra month,” Ben says quickly, trying to defend himself. “You know I have! And I would’ve gotten the money from Tommy, but he—”

“Is fish food on the bottom of the Thames!” Phil yells, and he slams one hand on his desk with a loud thud. Ben instinctively jumps at the loud noise, eyes falling shut briefly to recover from the surprise before opening again. 

“Am I wrong? You did kill him, didn’t you?” Phil rises to his feet and walks around his desk to stand in front of Ben. His broad shoulders are mirrored in those of his son, who stands barely a foot away. 

Two mob bosses facing each other, shoulders pulled back and gazes locked. Father and son. Daddy lion and cub. 

It’s a waiting game to see who will bare their fangs first. 

Ben’s heart pounds rapidly in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he can only hear the thundering sound of blood rushing in his ears. Phil’s eyes are clouded with anger, mouth tugged down in an angry frown.

“Jay… killed him,” Ben manages to say. “I was… dealing with the copper.”

A short burst of breath pushes through Phil’s nose, and he looks away from Ben, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Trying to swallow is a difficult task with his dry mouth. “Dad, listen, I—”

Quick as a flash of lightning, Phil raises a hand and strikes Ben across the face. 

Ben stumbles back from the force of the blow, and the backs of his knees hit the hard edge of the desk. Phil’s hands are large and strong, covered in calluses and scars from a lifetime of shooting guns and working on cars. They have the power to hurt, to punish, to kill, and Ben feels all their potential as one collides with his face. 

Gently touching his middle finger to his lower lip, Ben feels that the scab split open, and now the cut is bleeding. He looks at his finger and grins at the sight of red, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head.

“What’s so funny?” Phil snaps.

Ben sniggers. “This,” he says, and then he sticks his middle finger up to show off the blood.

The seconds blow catches Ben near the eye, knocking him flat on his back across the desk. His already pounding head strikes the surface with a loud bang, and stars burst across his vision. Momentarily dazed, a laugh drags its way out of his throat. 

“You little shit,” Phil practically spits. He towers over Ben and grabs him by the front of his shirt, yanking him up off the desk so their faces hover inches apart. “Is everything a joke to you?”

Ben takes in a gasping breath and tries to compose himself. “Funny things are,” he replies, and his split lip burns as it’s pulled into a smile.

Phil lifts Ben higher and slams him back onto the desk. “Shut your mouth,” he demands, voice edging on a growl. His entire face is flushed, a vein popping out in his forehead, and Ben knows he’s pushing the limits of his father’s notoriously short temper. 

“Hit me again,” Ben says, his voice raspy, chest heaving with rapid, uneven breaths. Anger bubbles up inside him like a smoldering volcano, seconds away from exploding.

Phil’s scowl deepens, but Ben can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, and he knows he’s considering it.

“Hit me!” Ben shouts, a bit of his inner rage spilling over the top, and he slaps his father on the chest. “Punish me! Show me how much of a failure I am!”

He’s spiraling and he knows it, but he willingly gives in. He craves destruction like an addict in need of a fix, desperate for pain to distract him from the crushing self-hatred that clenches his heart in an iron grip. Phil is completely right; he is a failure, and he hates himself for it. 

Hatred consumes Ben like a disease, rotting him from the inside out. His stomach heaves with disappointment, and his eyes burn with tears that want to come, but he holds them back. Nothing else in the world can make him feel this way except for the knowledge that he’s disappointed his father. All he can do is hate himself and curse himself for being stupid enough to make a mistake and ruin everything.

“You ain’t worth the hassle,” Phil says. Keeping Ben’s shirt clamped in one fist, he reaches for the smoldering cigarette and picks it up. He looks at it with a small, cruel smile, and Ben’s nose wrinkles up as a curl of smoke wafts into his nostrils.

Then Phil presses the lit end to the bare skin above Ben’s collar bone, exposed by the opened top button of his shirt. 

It takes all of Ben’s strength to withhold the scream that rises in his throat, and only a choked gasp escapes his lips. He can’t show weakness. Not here, not now, not ever. He refuses to give his father the satisfaction that he’s hurting, that pain flares across his skin as the cigarette burns him.

Phil’s gaze remains locked on Ben’s face as he digs the cigarette in deeper, eyes searching for a flicker of emotion. Ben doesn’t give in, even as his teeth grind together from clenching his jaw so tightly to keep himself silenced.

This is a test, one Ben intends to pass with flying colors. 

Finally, a smile grows on Phil’s face, and something like pride flashes in his eyes. Any remaining flame has now been snuffed out, and the cigarette is cold. Phil pulls it away from Ben’s skin and flicks it away.

“That’s my boy,” Phil says, and Ben blinks up at him in surprise. He exhales heavily through his nose, relieved that the worst of the pain has stopped. 

Phil grabs Ben by the arms and pulls him to his feet. “That—” he pounds Ben on the chest with his palm. “—is the Ben I know! Tough! Strong!”

If he hadn’t already been battered, Ben would feel like he’s been slapped in the face. Phil’s demeanor switched so quickly he feels like he’s suffering from whiplash. But his gut instinct was correct, as it usually is. Phil never wanted to truly punish Ben; he was only testing him. Phil’s ruffled feathers at the prospect of a potential failure can be soothed if Ben proves his loyalty, his determination, and his unwavering strength.

No resistance in the face of Phil’s overwhelming authority, and no sign of weakness under his punishment. That’s how Ben has always played this game, and his method has served him well once again. Relief washes away almost all negative emotion, except for a lingering hint of hatred that squeezes Ben’s insides and whispers cruel things in his ear. 

But that is nothing new. That’s an old friend who Ben meets on the nights where he tries to lose himself in a flood of alcohol and the warm arms of a stranger. 

“I am sorry, Dad,” Ben says. This feels like his millionth apology, but what else can he do? He has to ask for his father’s forgiveness, and all he can hope is that Phil is gracious enough to give it to him.

Phil straightens his suit jacket. “Shut up, would you?” He says gruffly, and he claps a heavy hand to his son’s shoulder. 

Mouth clamped shut, Ben nods fervently. 

Phil releases Ben and returns to his chair. “So how did a copper get involved in all of this?”

Ben shrugs. “He came out of nowhere. Must’ve been doing late rounds around the square or something.”

Eyes narrowing, Phil strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t think Tommy grassed,” Ben says truthfully. “He pulled a gun on me and Jay before the copper even found us. He was scared of me, then panicked and fired.”

Phil pats the newspaper. “Then tell me why the headline doesn’t say _police officer shot dead.”_

Ben runs a hand through his hair, trying to find a place to focus his energy. He feels unsettled after being battered, then praised immediately after.

“He saw our faces. I couldn’t just leave.” He spreads his feet into a more secure stance, his posture becoming more defiant as he pulls his shoulders back. “I’m not going down for a fucking copper.”

The subtle nod from Phil tells Ben that was the right thing to say. 

“What did you do?”

Ben smiles. “What you taught me. Find a weakness, exploit it, and use it to my benefit.”

Phil laughs. “That’s my boy!” His eyes light up, and he leans forward in his chair to listen.

“I saved his life,” Ben says casually, like it’s no great feat. “In exchange for his silence.”

Phil looks slightly disappointed. “That’s it?”

Ben’s smile darkens into something more sinister. “Course not. I fully intend to make sure he knows that he works for me now. Whatever job I see fit.”

“We can always do with another bent copper,” Phil muses. He looks pleased, and Ben could cry in relief. This meeting started off horribly and only would have gotten worse if Ben hadn’t played his cards right. 

But that’s who he is. Ben Mitchell assesses the situation and finds the single scenario out of thousands where he can win.

And he’s never failed.

Phil waves a hand dismissively at Ben. “Get out of here. Seems like you’ve got some work to do with that copper of yours.”

_That copper of yours._ The words warm Ben, and the feeling confuses him. He should be excited to break him down and pull his strings like a marionette master, not giddy at the thought of seeing him again. 

But as much as he hates to admit it, the copper intrigues him. Highway knew him: his face and his name and his business. The knowledge clearly scared him, evident in the way he trembled in Ben’s presence and how his voice wavered whenever he spoke.

But there was something other than fear in those bright blue eyes that stared up at Ben so intently. _Curiosity,_ and lots of it, so strong that it was impossible to conceale completely. Clearly, Ben’s reputation wasn’t enough to scare him entirely.

There was something off about the way the copper held himself. Defiance and confidence come naturally to Ben, but coming from him, it looked forced. Unnatural. Like he was walking around in someone else’s skin.

Ben thinks of his handsome face. Being clean-shaven only added to his youthful appearance, but there was a sense of broken innocence in his eyes that hinted at a storied past. Almost like the boy he once was was forced to become a man too quickly.

Ben sees it all the time within the mob. Countless boys who run away from troubled homes with dreams of finding a place to belong. The mob looks for mal-adjusted young men who give little thought to sacrificing others in order to protect their newfound family. 

And Ben gets it, truly. The mob has long been perpetuated as a lavish lifestyle of expensive suits and beautiful women, where gunfire pops like champagne corks as enemies are gleefully eliminated. Some of that is true; the contents of Ben’s closet and his lengthy history of bedroom conquests can attest to the sexier side of things.

But the glitz and glamour is only a thin veneer that barely conceals the true horrors. There’s a big difference between a movie gangster casually shooting someone for looking at him too wrong and actually pulling the trigger to end a real human life.

It’s a life that the copper clearly never imagined he would be exposed to.

On the short walk to the funeral parlor to see Jay, a plan grows in Ben’s mind. He doesn’t just want to use the copper as a tool; he wants to get to know him. Take him apart, find out what makes him tick, then rebuild him to his liking. Ben has never met a challenge he doesn’t take head-on, and he grins at the thought of how fun this particular one will be.

Ben is about to make Officer Highway break all the rules.

***

_The weight of a gun in his hands, heavy from the destructive power it holds. The acrid odor of burning buildings curling in his nostrils. A vast expanse of war-torn land spread out in front of him. Smoke fills his mouth as he breathes in, clogging his throat._

_And the screams._

_The screams fill his ears, offset by the pop of guns firing and explosions. Screams of the vulnerable, helpless to defend themselves. Suffering that no human should endure, drenched in blood and soaked in sunshine that shouldn’t illuminate such things._

Callum jolts awake with a gasp, and he lurches forward in bed. Heart hammering in his chest, his chest heaves with short pants of breath. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead and sticks the thin hospital gown to his back.

He puts his head in his hands and tries to get his breathing under control, his whole body trembling violently. It’s been a while since he had a nightmare. When he first got back from the army, he had them almost every night. He would wake up drenched in sweat, screaming at things that were only really there in memory. 

Callum knows where this was coming from. He’d been shot, and at the time, the crack of the gunshot probably hadn’t affected him only because his mind was too busy panicking about the injury. But he internalized the trauma, like he does with everything. It’s exhausting, and he knows it isn’t the right way of handling things, but he can’t bring himself to talk about the things he’s experienced, no matter how desperately he needs to.

Callum pushes his hair back from his face and shivers as the cool air hits his sweaty skin, barely covered by the thin hospital gown. He hugs his arms and wishes for a blanket, or maybe a towel to dry his face. 

“Alright?”

Callum whips his head up to see Ben sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. It’s one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs made of hard plastic, but he’s draped across it like a throne.

His mind goes blank. There’s a dozen questions sitting on his tongue, but he can’t vocalize any of them over the shock he feels. Ben is here, _really here,_ in this room. Callum thought he’d never see him again.

“What are—” Callum pauses to take a breath and licks his lips. “What are you doing here?”

Ben rises gracefully to his feet. Callum has no idea how long he’s been sitting there, but he shouldn’t look so at ease after sitting in one of those plastic monstrosities. He picks it up and walks it over to Callum’s bedside.

“Bit obvious, innit?” Ben sits down and greets Callum with a smile. “I’m here to see you.”

Callum grits his teeth. “Visiting hours are over.”

“Dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m not really keen on following the rules.” Ben rests his hands in his lap and shrugs.

Callum rubs at his eyes. “How did you even—”

“Get in?” Ben finishes. “I have my ways.”

Callum pulls his hands away from his face to fix Ben with a look. “Either you broke in, or you know someone who works here, and they let you in.”

Leaning forward, Ben rests his elbow on his thigh so he can prop his chin up on the palm of his hand. “Very perceptive, Mr. Copper,” he says, popping the p’s.

Callum ignores the teasing and looks him over. Ben looks just like he had when they first met. Leather jacket sitting perfectly on his shoulders, hair ruffled, and a half-smirk on his face. The bruises on his cheeks have faded a bit, but now there’s a fresh one under his right eye, a splash of purple that looks like ink in the darkened room.

Callum snorts. “Nice eye.”

“Good one,” Ben deadpans, and the non-reaction only spikes Callum’s irritation. How can he be so composed, so unbothered? Callum could hurl the nastiest insults in the world and Ben probably wouldn’t even flinch. 

Ben is like a wall, solid and unmoving and capable of taking any blow dealt to it. Banter only bolsters his confidence, arming him to make a snappy comeback. He deflects every slight like it’s nothing, and even if it does bother him, he certainly doesn’t show it. 

Callum isn’t that way at all. He feels so strongly with emotions that run deep within him, and he wears his heart on his sleeve. He finds it hard to say anything but the truth, to be anything but sincere. 

Ben _pisses him off._ From the smug smile that never seems to leave his face to the teasing way he speaks, Ben’s attitude irritates him more than he thought it would. How can one person be so infuriating?

“Get out,” Callum snaps. It’s barely been a minute and his patience is already worn thin. 

Ben looks offended. “But you haven’t even heard what I have to say!”

“And I don’t want to.” Callum reclines back against his pillows and stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve just been shot. Leave me in peace.”

“No,” Ben says airily. “We’ve got business to discuss.”

“Business?” Callum looks at Ben with a shocked, angry expression. “I want nothing to do with you!”

Ben’s eyes flicker across Highway’s form, drinking him in. He looks exhausted, skin paler than normal and shoulders slumped. His eyes have lost their brightness and now gaze at Ben dully, dragged down by dark circles under them. 

He’s clearly not alright, and Ben realizes he has rethink his approach. Coming at him with nothing but sass will only make him more defensive.

“Look,” Ben says in a calm voice. “Why don’t we start over. We didn’t have the best circumstances for a first meeting. I mean, you were dying and I was trying to save your life!”

It’s as much humor as Ben dares to inject into the situation, but it seems to do the trick. Highway rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile on his face.

“I reckon you might be right.”

Ben smiles and extends his hand. “I’m Ben,” he says. “Just Ben,” he adds in a quieter voice, almost as an afterthought. 

That makes Callum pause. There’s a glimpse of vulnerability that he hasn’t seen before, and it’s surprising. Ben shed the Mitchell name to introduce himself, even though it defines him and his life. 

Maybe there’s more to the notorious mob boss than meets the eye.

Callum takes Ben’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “Callum.”

_Callum._ Ben loves the way the name sounds in his ears. 

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Callum drops his hand to the bed, but Ben doesn’t let go. He looks down at the contact for a few moments, running his thumb across the back of Callum’s hand. 

“Strong hands,” Ben murmurs, and he looks lost in thought. Callum doesn’t know what to say, but he also doesn’t pull his hand away from Ben’s hold. It’s… nice.

Then Ben raises his head and meets Callum’s gaze. “Let’s put them to good use!”

Any chill that Callum once felt is erased by heat rising on the back of his neck. He finds he can’t string together a coherent sentence, and he quickly pulls his hand out of Ben’s grip.

“Don’t look so scandalized, Callum,” Ben scolds with an impish grin. “I didn’t mean it like _that.”_

“Then what do you mean?” Callum asks.

Ben leans back in his chair. “I want you to work for me.”

Callum feels like he’s been slapped in the face, and a shocked little laugh escapes him. He shakes his head at Ben and can’t help but smile in disbelief, so put off by the statement. “Are you joking?”

Ben’s serious expression points to anything but. “I never joke about my business, Callum.”

“But— I don’t—” 

“By the way, how do you like the flowers?” Ben interrupts.

Callum blinks at the rapid switch in conversation. “Don’t change the subject,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Ben.

Ben just sits there and looks at Callum expectantly.

Sighing, Callum gives in. “They’re lovely. You didn’t have to do that.”

Ben looks pleased. “Course I did. It’s my way of saying sorry. And if you’re going to be trapped here for a while, you might as well have something pretty to look at.”

“Thank you,” Callum says. He pushes away the random urge to take Ben’s hand.

Ben shrugs. “Flowers ain’t exactly a replacement for me, but they’re alright.”

Any warmth Callum feels toward Ben disappears, and irritation returns in full force. “Full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Now!” Ben moves right past the comment, and he claps his hands together. “Like I was saying. I want you to work for me.”

“Work for you,” Callum repeats, and he scoffs. “What might that entail?”

Ben strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Say one of my boys ends up in the cop house. You could find an error in the case. A careless mistake. Maybe some paperwork has gone missing, meaning you can no longer hold him in custody.” He raises his hands in the air, expecting Callum to get his drift.

Callum laughs. “You want me to break the law for you? That’s rich.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “You make it sound so dramatic. I just want you to turn a blind eye every once in a while. And I can send plenty of law-breaking citizens your way for easy arrests. That’ll make you look really good for your superiors.”

“So let me get this straight,” Callum says, ignoring the wink Ben flashes his way, “I’m supposed to free your buddies and lock up your enemies?”

“Why, Callum!” Ben’s mouth drops open, and he presses one hand to his chest, feigning shock. “I’m a generous man! This relationship has got to go both ways.”

“Relationship?” Callum asks, his voice shakier than he’d like it to be.

Ben smirks. “Sorry. I suppose that does make it sound a bit homoerotic.” He sighs and readjusts the sleeves of his jacket. “A partnership, then. A good one can’t see you giving me everything and not getting anything in return.”

Callum frowns. “Meaning?”

Leaning in close, Ben looks at Callum intently. “I can give you anything you want.”

Callum finds himself looking away from the intensity of Ben’s gaze. “I don’t want nothing,” he says quietly, fingers playing with the edge of his sheet.

Ben leans in closer, ducking his head to get a proper look at Callum. “Everyone wants something,” he argues. “Especially coppers. You’ve all got something to prove.”

Callum doesn’t mean to look up at Ben, but it’s instinctual. He’s surprised and a bit uncomfortable that Ben analyzed him so quickly and in so few words.

And he’s completely right. Callum has been chasing validation his whole life, eager to find something he’s good at to prove he’s not as useless as he feels most of the time. The army had been that for a while, as he discovered he had a purpose with a gun in his hands and the weight of his country on his shoulders. 

That was before protecting his army became synonymous with sacrificing innocent lives, those of strangers whose faces he didn’t know, and those of close friends who would never smile at him again. He returned home a changed man, but he left a part of himself overseas, and the gaping hole that remains haunts him every waking hour.

Callum has been running for so long, chasing the rush of achieving _something_ in hopes that it will make him feel less empty inside. His military record made him a perfect candidate for the police, and he signed up barely a year after being discharged from the army. He yearned for a place to belong and a duty that gave him the opportunity to do good, but even after almost four years as an officer, he hasn’t come close to reaching that goal.

But now Callum sits across from the crown prince of the Mitchell kingdom. Ben wants his services under his command. It’s the opportunity Callum has been waiting for, practically served up to him on a silver platter.

He’ll play the role of Ben’s puppet, feeding him false confidence that he has Callum firmly wrapped around his little finger. If he plays his cards right, Callum can take advantage of their “business arrangement” to find out everything he can about the Mitchell mob.

Callum is nervous at the prospect of being a double agent, but he’d be a fool to let the offer pass him by. All he has to do is get Ben to trust him, and when the time is right, he’ll pull the rug out from under his feet.

“So what’s it gonna be?” Ben asks, voice a bit impatient. “Money? Power? Fast car?”

Callum flashes a smile that he doesn’t mean at Ben. “A promotion. I’m a good officer, but I’ve never reached higher than that.”

It’s a lie, but a believable one. It shows his willingness to take part in this arrangement, and that he knows not to be too greedy at the start.

“I can make that happen.” Ben grins. “Let’s just say me and the Old Bill go way back.”

A multitude of meanings lie in that simple statement, and Callum can’t even begin to unravel them all.

“I can imagine,” Callum replies. 

Ben hums, and then he rises to his feet, carelessly kicking the chair behind him with one foot. He towers over Callum’s reclining form, casting shadows across his body.

“How’s the leg?”

“Fine,” Callum says. “The surgery to remove the bullet went well. I was lucky it didn’t shatter.”

Ben puts his hand on the edge of the bed. “You are lucky. Being shot at close range like that usually doesn’t end well.”

“No?” Callum says weakly. He doesn’t like how helpless he feels, unable to defend himself in his current state. 

“No.” Ben pulls the bedsheet back from Callum, exposing his bare legs. The hospital gown only extends to his knees, and Ben slips one hand under the hem.

Callum inhales sharply, frozen in place by fear that paralyzes his whole body.

“Where was it again? Here, maybe?” Ben asks, his voice soft, and then he places his hand right above Callum’s knee.

Ben’s hand is warm against the bare skin of his leg, fingers applying a gentle pressure. Callum has never been touched like this before. Sure, Whitney has run her hand up his leg before, trying to get him in the mood, but it’s always been easy to ignore. 

This is… _different._ Callum can feel the strength in Ben’s fingers as he flexes them, and the calluses on his palm are rough. It’s undeniably masculine, and he can feel a flush rising in his face. 

“Or was it… here?” Ben moves his hand higher up, fingers dragging agonizingly gently. His thumb swipes low to stroke Callum’s inner thigh, whose breath catches in his throat. He can’t help the rush of a feeling that goes through him, burning bright and warm. It dies just as quickly, replaced by shame washing over him. 

He shouldn’t be liking this, not even the most minute amount. There’s no doubt in Callum’s mind that Ben’s hands have killed. The thought scares him, and he shudders as he imagines those fingers wrapped around a gun, ready to pull the trigger without hesitation. That same hand is now wrapped around his leg.

But Ben’s hands have also saved life. _Callum’s life._ They tied the tourniquet and pressed to his face and chest, trying to deliver emotion when words failed. 

Ben’s eyes are dark with a heady emotion, mouth slack before he bites his bottom lip. Callum knows that Ben is playing with him; the wound is bandaged heavily, and it’s easy to tell where skin ends and cloth begins. He’s dragging it out, acting oblivious when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I think it might be… here.” 

Ben places his hand right on top of the wound, and Callum’s breath leaves him in a rushed exhale. 

“It’s a shame, really,” Ben murmurs. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

His eyes never leave Callum’s face, like he’s waiting for a reaction. It’s obvious he knows that his hand is in the right place. He traces one finger across the folds of the bandages with a feather-like touch. 

“No,” Callum rasps. “It shouldn’t have.”

“I need to know that you’re serious about working for me,” Ben says quietly. “Can’t have you double-crossing me, not after I’ve given you such a generous opportunity.”

The pace of his heart quickens, and Callum licks his lips. “Of course I’m serious,” he responds, but his voice wavers slightly.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ben whispers. He looks at Callum with a gentle expression, something like regret shining in his eyes.

Then all emotion is wiped from his face and it’s like Callum is looking at a statue.

“But I will.”

Ben squeezes Callum’s leg, who lets out a weak, pitiful cry as pain flares like a red-hot brand. 

“Just because I saved your life once doesn’t make us mates,” Ben says, his voice cold and steely like the edge of a blade. 

Callum grabs onto Ben’s forearm with both hands, gasping in pain as Ben’s fingers tighten around his leg. “Ben…”

“You work for me, Callum Highway,” Ben says, his voice harsh and demanding “Do you understand?”

Tears sting Callum’s eyes, and his voice is stolen by the agonizing throbbing in his leg. He can only nod fervently.

Ben immediately releases his grip. “Glad that’s settled.”

Callum collapses back against his pillows and rakes in a shaky breath. He’s trembling again, and he can only sit and wait until the pain fades away.

“I’ve got your number,” Ben tells him. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

He turns and heads to leave. Callum watches him go, eyes tracking his form. When Ben reaches the door, he stops and looks over his shoulder.

“I also put my number in your phone,” he says.

“You did?” Callum asks, surprised and a bit impressed that Ben had managed it. Even though it's a necessity, he doesn’t like that Ben has a way to contact him. 

Ben flashes a winning smile at Callum from across the room. “Call me sometime!”

Then he opens the door and slips out like a shadow in the night. 

The pain in Callum’s leg has started to subside, but it still hurts like hell. He’s a fool for thinking this would be easy, for thinking he knew what to expect. Ben is unpredictable, like a lit fuse waiting to explode. Teasing and sarcastic one moment, then cruel and cold the next. It’s like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, thinking you have a grip on it right before it slips through your fingers. 

Turning his head to the side, Callum’s gaze falls on the bouquet. Just another piece of the puzzle that is Ben Mitchell. He pulls out a single daisy from the bunch and holds it up in front of him, turning it back and forth. 

He takes hold of one petal between his fingers and plucks it off. _I can trust him._ The petal flutters to the floor.

He pulls off another petal. _I can’t trust him._ Another petal discarded. 

Callum continues this pattern around the flower, the mantra in his head flipping with each petal he extracts. 

_I can trust him. I can’t trust him. I can trust him. I can’t trust him._

Bullet wounds and tourniquets. Black eyes and cocky smiles. Pain and pleasure. 

It’s all too much.

Callum throws the flower to the ground before he can completely rid it of its petals. He doesn’t know what result he’ll get, and he’s too scared to see, even if it’s a silly game with a meaningless flower.

_Can I trust him?_

Callum has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #give ben and callum a break 2k20
> 
> find me here!  
> twitter - @spielsonian  
> tumblr - @maryatthecomiccon


	4. late night devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few weeks, Callum and Ben are brought together again by bad luck or something that looks suspiciously like fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!
> 
> this update took a bit longer than the previous ones... i was struggling with this chapter, so i stepped away from it for a bit, but now it's here! hopefully i can get a consistent upload schedule in place at some point, but until then, i hope you enjoy the updates as they come! <3
> 
> tw // self-harm, blood, mention of injury

It’s been two weeks since Callum last saw Ben. Two weeks since that night in the hospital, when Ben came to him like the snake from Eden, slipping in with flowers like forbidden fruit, a tempting gift used to hide his true nature. But the sickly sweet facade hadn’t lasted very long, and Callum felt his venomous bite soon enough.

A shudder works its way down Callum’s spine every time he thinks of the change he saw in Ben. It was like a switch had been flipped, and Ben’s snarky demeanor gave way to something dark. Callum can still picture Ben’s angry scowl, still feel the phantom grip of Ben’s fingers around his leg. It chills him how something that started so flirtatious, but innocent enough, turned into something violent and cruel. The message was clear: Callum works for Ben. That was the end of the discussion, with no room for argument or negotiation. 

The thought of being Ben Mitchell’s lackey makes Callum’s skin crawl. At first, he thought he’d stumbled across a golden opportunity. How many police officers can say they personally know their targets? But the glimpse of true darkness that Callum had seen in Ben, the bit that made his eyes shine with a dangerously reckless glint as he tightened his fingers around Callum’s wound, told him otherwise. Ben’s offhand discussion of freeing a few mob buddies from prison felt like a cheap trick, one to distract Callum from what Ben really wants him to do. 

This isn't some deals on the side that are a bit dodge. It’s more than some stolen cars and a black eye; Callum has  _ seen  _ that it’s more in the sinister flicker in Ben’s eyes and the angry cuts and bruises on his face. 

Callum is a fool for thinking he’d be let off easy. Surely Ben wants him for more than just a few rip-offs. Granted, he could be letting his mind run wild with delusions of grandeur. He half-expects Ben to pull up in an old jalopy, dressed in a zoot suit with a handheld machine gun, ready to pull off the bank robbery of the century. But this isn’t a cheesy old gangster movie. This is real life, and Callum has somehow landed himself in the biggest criminal operation in London.

Maybe Callum is letting his imagination get away from him. But he harbors a burning curiosity, a thirst to learn more. At first, it was only because he viewed the Mitchells as a band of criminals that needed to be taken down. But he can’t treat this like just another case, because it isn’t. He  _ knows  _ it isn’t. And now, that curiosity stems from a desire to know  _ everything.  _ Callum’s had a taste of the darkness, and now he wants to plunge his hands into it and grab it, even though Ben slips through his grasp like smoke.

Callum knows not to play with fire. He’s been to enough funerals of police officers who’ve gotten in way over their heads with a case, to the point where it cost them their lives. And this isn’t just any case. This is an investigation into the Mitchell mob, the most dangerous and powerful criminal group in the East End. Petty crimes like shoplifting and vandalism pale in comparison to the acts they commit. 

Ben is a raging bonfire, hot and volatile, and Callum is dancing in the sparks on the edge. 

If he steps too close, he’s going to get burned.

But try as he does, Callum can’t shake the feeling that Ben isn’t what he appears. He’s seen glimpses of vulnerability shining through the cracks in his armor. He can’t forget the bitterness in his voice when Callum identified him as a Mitchell, or how gentle his hands were as he tied up Callum’s wound. Little hints of  _ something more,  _ hidden behind an exterior that’s closed up tightly to prevent anyone from looking inside.

Callum would be lying if he said that night in the hospital with Ben didn’t scare him. He had seen true darkness from Ben, fueled by a desire to get what he wants with no qualms about the methods he uses to obtain it. It was all a game of power dynamics, and Ben had been on top, inflicting pain on Callum through a wound he was at least partly responsible for. 

So far, that seems like the only constant quality of Ben that Callum can pin down; doing a good deed to serve his own self-interest, and then using it to his advantage to further his cause. 

But why does it feel like something more? 

Ben’s decision continues to baffle him, even though Ben has explained himself countless times at this point. It was all too easy for Ben to let him die, or do one better and finish the job himself. Keeping a copper alive is the last thing a mob boss should do, when all it would have taken was a single shot to put one less boy in blue on the streets.

Callum still doesn’t fully understand it.

But maybe that’s who Ben is. Everything he does is an act to hide his true nature. He flirts and winks and makes jokes, turning on the charm to the highest levels to draw in unsuspecting victims. And once they’re all but captured, he lets it all drop to pounce on his prey.

Two excruciatingly long weeks have passed and Callum’s mind has done nothing but spin with thoughts, and he hasn’t even received a single piece of communication from Ben. No calls or texts, even though Ben’s parting words promised that he would be in touch soon. Then again, he also gleefully asked Callum to call him sometime, an option he’s found himself considering more and more with each passing day. More than once a day he pulls up Ben’s contact in his phone, labeled inconspicuously as  _ Ben M,  _ and stares at it for a while, thumb hovering over the call button. But he always closes it with a shake of his head, never certain of what he’s doing.

Ben doesn’t even show his face in the square. His absence should give Callum the opportunity to get his life back on track; he can focus on his investigation and his girlfriend with little else to worry about. But his mind is consumed by thoughts of Ben, all of them fighting each other with the conflicting sides he’s seen of the enigmatic mobster. 

And as much as he hates to admit it, he misses Ben. That smirk and those captivating eyes that draw him in, tempting him to take up a post in the game that Ben plays. Their push and pull dynamic is magnetic; every time Callum resists Ben, he only finds himself being pulled in by a stronger force. 

Callum wants to keep his partnership with Ben strictly professional, but he fears that things have already progressed to a point of no return, even though so little time has passed. He doesn’t just want to investigate Ben; he wants to  _ know him.  _ The more he thinks about it, the less he cares about what Ben gets up to as a mobster and the more he cares about what Ben does when he’s not off committing crimes.

Is there even such a thing as Ben Mitchell when he’s not a mobster? Is there a part of him that exists untarnished and uncorrupted by the mob? There  _ must  _ be. The man who saved Callum’s life and sent him flowers can’t be the same man that went to jail for murder. 

A throb of pain spikes in Callum’s leg, effectively breaking him out of his thoughts. He shakes his head like a physical action will help dispel them faster. It’s a harsh reminder that whatever Ben’s intentions are, he did hurt Callum further. Life saved or not, he chose to use pain to bend Callum to his will. 

Callum doesn’t trust Ben at all. The tiny shreds of Ben’s seemingly well-hidden humanity that he’s seen can’t be used to justify forgiveness, let alone trust. Everything that’s happened between them so far— which isn’t much— is in the past now, and Callum has to focus on the future. He has a job to do, and that’s the end of it, no matter what power Ben holds over him.

Callum’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out to look at it. His stomach clenches when he sees Whitney’s name staring up at him from the screen.

Biting his lip, Callum unlocks his phone and opens the text. 

_ [Hey! If you can catch a break, do you want to get lunch?] _

Callum’s fingers hover above the keyboard, motionless, his mind blank. Then another text comes through.

_ [Miss you <3] _

A knot tightens in Callum’s stomach, and he waits another minute before typing back a reply.

_ [Sure] _

He frowns. That seems too simple. 

_ [Sure!] _

The exclamation point adds nothing, but he sends the text anyway before slipping his phone back into his pocket. He knows he’s being distant with Whitney, and he knows it’s unfair after she’s been there for him every step of his recovery. She visited him every day he spent in the hospital, bringing him his favorite doughnuts from the bakery and sitting with him for hours, holding his hand. When the time came for Callum to stand up and try to walk, she was at his side, her hands gentle but firm on his arm, steadying him. When the pain in his leg became too much and he collapsed to the floor, she was there, kneeling at his side to wipe the sweat off his brow and kiss away his tears. 

Whitney has been an anchor in these tumultuous times, keeping Callum tied down when he felt like drifting away. He doesn’t deserve her unwavering love and support, especially since he knows he can never offer her the same. And the guilt is eating him up inside. She’s not the person he wants at his side, helping to change his bandages and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Whitney loves Callum, and he loves her, but not in the same way. 

But he has to try. After everything Whitney has done for him, not just with his injury, but since the beginning of their relationship. She’s the most wonderful woman he’s ever known, and he doesn’t deserve any bit of her. But he owes her everything he can give her, even if he feels his heart break a bit more every time they kiss or make love. 

It’s tearing him apart to love her, to force himself to be a person that he truly isn’t. It’s always been easy to push that side of him away, to shove it down and hide it in the deepest recesses of his soul. But recently he’s found himself fighting it more aggressively than he ever has before, like a dam inside him cracked and is now creeping closer to bursting. 

Ever since Ben. 

Seeing Ben look at him so intently, feel Ben touch him so gently… it’s driving Callum insane with how it makes him feel. His mind screams at him to get a grip and to trust his logic. He isn’t interested in men, and man or not, Ben is a dangerous criminal. Nothing about him should be attractive.

But no matter how many times Callum tells himself that he loves Whitney, it’s never enough to convince himself that it’s the truth. It wounds him deeply to know that she’s never made him feel the way Ben has. Ben can strip him of his inhibitions with a single look, can take him apart with a simple touch. Now that Callum has had a taste, he craves Ben’s presence like he’s a drug that Callum needs another hit of. 

Callum’s stomach turns. He’s wrong for thinking that way, for feeling anything less than pure hatred and disgust for Ben. Whitney has always been the only steady thing in Callum’s often chaotic life, but now even she stands on shaky ground. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, or where to start to get his life back under control. 

All he does know is that he can’t get Ben out of his head. 

***

In an unbelievably rare stroke of luck, Ben’s life is going well.

The ingoing and outgoing shipments at the docks are running smoothly. Business is booming at his club. And after the tough love from Phil, he’s put his foot down and demanded payments from clients at the original deadlines. 

Ben’s daily life is chaotic and messy, but that’s what being a mobster in charge of several businesses and hundreds of employees and clients entails. It’s like a breath of fresh air that the tasks he runs himself ragged to complete are going without a hitch. He’s getting the money he’s owed and making plenty more, all without being beat up every other night. 

It’s a fleeting glimpse of tranquility that Ben knows won’t last. Something will crop up eventually, whether it’s dissent among the ranks or a faulty client. Whatever the issue might be, when it does arise, Ben will be expected to handle it. So for now, he’s grateful that he has a brief stint of life that’s as close to normality as it can get.

There’s only one thing interrupting the otherwise smooth flow of Ben’s life.

Callum.

Ben thinks about the copper more than he cares to admit. They’ve barely spent an hour’s worth of time together, but as brief as their interactions were, they were electrifying. Ben loves to rile people up, using taunts and insults to press all their buttons until they can’t take it anymore. Pushing people to their breaking point is a talent he’s perfected over the years, and Callum is just another tool to use and break.

But surprisingly, Callum didn’t crumble under Ben’s onslaught. Ben’s words clearly bothered him, evident in the angry furrow of his eyebrows and the shortness of his voice, but they didn’t affect him like Ben expected them to. There’s a spark in Callum that grew into something bigger when he refused to sit and take Ben’s insults in silence. Weak as his defense was, it’s more than Ben is used to, and that excites him. He lives for a challenge, and it seems like Callum is gearing up to give him one.

Ben can read Callum like an open book: rigid, law-abiding copper who fights for the greater good. The other side offends him; the nerve of a mobster to lay a hand on a precious boy in blue. 

And lay a hand on him, Ben did. If a mobster wasn’t bad enough, how about a gay one who shamelessly flirts with Callum and touches him in places that get his heart racing. Ben plays this little game with everyone; it’s all too easy to get a straight man worked up over an unabashed display of gayness, and Callum certainly seemed affected. Ben could see it in the deep blush on his cheeks and the tremble of his lower lip as his mind no doubt raced to find a suitable way to handle the situation.

Ben smiles to himself as he thinks about the way he dragged his hand up Callum’s leg. Surely no copper training had prepared him for something like  _ that.  _ It’s been two weeks and Ben still thinks about it. The way big, tall, imposing copper Callum had looked so fragile and vulnerable, and how Ben had taken him apart with a few simple touches. It’s exhilarating to wield that kind of power over someone, and that was just the beginning. Ben has to keep Callum in a constant state of unease and discomfort to keep him under his thumb. He’ll let Callum breathe every once and a while, and right when he thinks he’s found his footing, Ben will pull the rug from underneath his feet, sending him crashing back to square one.

Callum’s number sits in Ben’s phone, practically begging to be called, but Ben hasn’t given in to temptation. He hasn’t found the right job for Callum yet. He wants it to be a position that’s easy work at first, but open to the opportunity of becoming much more further down the line. Something where Ben can keep him close enough to keep an eye on him, but far enough away that their relationship can’t blossom into something more than a partnership.

Besides, Ben has no doubt that the transition from hospital back to normal life is a difficult one. Callum did get shot, after all, and he’s lucky that Ben was gracious enough to save him from bleeding out. Still, he misses Callum… just a bit.

With no pressing matters on hand, Ben decides that it’s the perfect time to pay Phil a visit. It might be a bit early to test the limits of his father’s forgiveness, seeing as the cigarette burn on his chest has only just healed, but where’s the fun in life without a little risk. 

Once he’s in the house, Ben takes the stairs two at a time. He whistles a cheery tune as he strolls into Phil’s office without bothering to knock, letting the door bang open into the wall beside it.

Phil winces at the noise before glancing up at Ben, a scowl on his face. “Can’t you knock?” He snaps.

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Dad!” Ben says in a chirpy tone. He drops gracefully into one of the chairs positioned in front of the desk, one leg tossed carelessly across the arm of the chair.

With a resigned sigh, Phil puts down the stack of papers he’s holding to give Ben his full attention. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d drop by for a little visit,” Ben says airily. “Give you a report on everything.”   
  
“Report?” Phil’s brows knit together in confusion. “I didn’t ask you for one.”

“Right, so this is coming out of the goodness of my own heart,” Ben says, and he presses a hand to his chest to emphasize the point. “The shipments are going well. We haven’t had any problems at the dock, and the crew is doing what they’re supposed to.”

Phil nods. “That’s good.”

Ben’s eyes drop to the paperwork on the desk, and a quick skim tells him that they’re the loan statements. “And as I’m sure you’ve noticed…” Ben gestures to the papers. “All our clients are paying up on time, and in full.”

“I did notice,” Phil replies.

Ben waits for a moment, but receives no further response. “What, that’s it?” He asks, putting his hands up in a gesture that says  _ Really? _

Phil just shrugs. “What more do you want me to say?”

A little laugh escapes Ben before he can bite it back. “I dunno, maybe something about how good of a job I’m doing? I’ve been keeping a lot of this business running for a long time, you know.”

“I know,” Phil says simply. He sits back in his chair and reaches for his cigarette lighter. “I know you’re doing a good job, Ben. You handle your responsibilities well, and I’m grateful.”

“Then you could just…” Ben gives himself a moment to take a breath and steady himself. Getting angry won’t do him any favors. “Just tell me that. Every once in a while.”

Phil laughs and shakes his head as he lights his cigarette. He takes a drag and then blows the smoke across the desk in Ben’s direction. “You’re like a dog. Always nipping at my heels, begging for a treat.”

The insult is like a slap in the face. Ben gently rubs at the barely healed cigarette burn under his shirt, only wincing slightly when it twinges a bit. 

“Well, I… I’m sorry if I’ve been annoying recently,” Ben says quietly. Any fight once awakening inside him has now gone dormant again, drowned out by the overwhelming shame he feels. It never fails to amaze him how quickly Phil can strip him of his confidence with a few choice words.

Phil looks surprised by the reaction, seeing as he’s more than accustomed to the fiery temper that his son seems to have inherited. He clears his throat and leans forward to look at Ben properly.

“You’re not annoying me,” he says. “Just ease off on the approval-seeking. It gets old. You and I both know you’re doing well.”

Ben nods, and Phil seems pleased. 

“How are things for you? With your club, and…” Phil waves his hand in the air. “All that.”

“My club is doing amazing,” Ben says with a grin. “Plenty of booze and money flowing. But what do you mean by  _ all that?” _

“Your personal life.” Phil suddenly looks uncomfortable, and he takes a long drag on his cigarette before speaking again. “You know… the gay thing.”

Ben does a slow blink, and he settles into a more comfortable sitting position with a heavy sigh. “Wow, Dad,” he says flatly, “I thought you’d moved passed calling it  _ the gay thing.” _

Phil scoffs. “Can you blame me? I can’t keep up with you and all your men.”

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Ben resists the urge to get up and leave right then and there. “They’re not  _ my  _ men, Dad, they’re just hookups,” he retorts. “And I don’t belong to anyone. I don’t do relationships.”

“You’ve sure changed since a few years ago,” Phil remarks. 

“Is there something you’re trying to say?” Ben asks, and he’s unable to keep irritation out of his voice. He’s grown tired of his father’s underhanded comments that hint at a deeper issue, one Phil refuses to bring to the surface.

“Nothing.” Phil smiles at Ben, but it’s devoid of warmth. “What’s the deal with that copper of yours?”

Ben’s brows furrow in confusion, and he’s unsure where this inquiry is coming from. “Dunno. Haven’t spoken to him in weeks.”

  
  
Phil looks surprised. “Why not?”

  
  
Shrugging, Ben says, “He only just got out of the hospital a week ago. I figured I’d give him a bit of time to get his affairs in order before throwing him into the mob, ay?”

Phil stubs out his cigarette in his desktop ashtray, and he stares at Ben intently. “You be careful with that one.”

Ben laughs. “It’s a bit late for that, he’s already been shot.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Phil’s expression turns angrier. “He owes you a debt, but he’s still a copper. You can never expect true loyalty from him.”

Ben waves a hand flippantly in the air. “I’m not looking for loyalty. I’m only looking for obedience. And if he doesn’t do what I say, then I’ll make him.”

“Good. Don’t let him forget who he’s working for.” Phil points an accusatory finger at Ben. “And don’t try to make him another one of your conquests. The last one didn’t end well, if I remember correctly.”

“What are you implying?” Ben asks, tilting his head at his father. 

“That curly-haired boy of yours a few years back. He sure got his, didn’t he?”

Ben’s entire body goes still with an all-encompassing anger that he can barely control. It simmers under the surface, fighting to break free from its restraints that Ben struggles to hold in place. A fine red mist seems to descend upon his vision, and he can feel his hands shake at his sides.

“You,” he says, voice dangerously soft, “Shut your mouth.”

“What?” Phil barks.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben seethes. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

Phil rises to his feet. “Watch your tone, boy!” he snaps.

“How  _ dare  _ you talk about him!” Ben shouts. He jumps to his feet and slams his hand on Phil’s desk with a loud bang. “You didn’t know him, and you didn’t want to! So you don’t get to say anything!”

“I say whatever I want,” Phil fires back. “And if I want to say he was a snotty-nosed little runt who had no business knowing you, then I will!”

Ben’s restraint snaps, and he lunges across the desk at his father. He reaches for the front of his father’s suit, but Phil grabs him by the arm and throws him back. Ben falls back into the chair, tipping it over and sending him crashing to the floor. 

“Try that again, Ben!” Phil towers over his son, face pulled into an angry scowl. “Just try me!”

Head spinning, Ben struggles to push himself into an upright sitting position. The wind has been knocked out of him by the fall, and he fights to start breathing properly again. 

There’s a knock on the door. Phil steps over Ben to open it, revealing Sharon standing in the doorway.

“Is everything okay?” She asks, looking concerned. “I heard loud noises.”

Ben finally catches his breath, and he draws in a wheezing breath, then coughs loudly.

Sharon’s eyes land on the disrupted chair and her fallen stepson. “Ben? You alright?”

When he finishes coughing his throat raw, Ben pushes himself to his feet, rising unsteadily. “Fine,” he rasps. “I was just leaving.”

Sharon looks completely unconvinced, but Ben doesn’t have the energy to explain. She can figure it out on her own, anyway. She knows about her husband’s temper and Ben’s talent for inducing irritation, and when the two clash, the fallout is often staggering.

“See ya later, Dad,” Ben says, not bothering to look at him. He presses a quick kiss to Sharon’s cheek as a peace offering, then slips past her. 

Ben thuds down the stairs as quickly as he can, desperate to get out of this house. He feels trapped, like the walls are closing in around him, and he has to get out. He practically runs through the front door, hand slipping on the doorknob in his eagerness to turn it.

Once he’s outside, he rakes in a deep breath of fresh air, not caring when the cold burns his throat. He doesn’t know what came over him. Everything had been fine, right up until Phil had mentioned—

Ben shakes his head and refuses to let himself think of the memories. It doesn’t do him any good to dwell on the past. All it does is bring him pain.

Ben’s eyes sting, a telltale sign of oncoming tears, and he sniffs. Phil hadn’t even said his name, but he didn’t need to. The briefest mention was enough. Enough to bring an image crashing through Ben’s thoughts, of a handsome young man with a mop of curly hair and a smile as bright as the sun…

The first couple of tears fall in burning streaks down Ben’s cold cheeks, and he hurriedly wipes them away with his coat sleeve. He sniffs again and clears his throat loudly. First he was tossed around by his father like a rag doll, and now he’s crying in public.

After a few moments of gazing around the square, Ben picks a destination. It’s only the afternoon, but it’s late enough to go to his club. He starts to walk there with purposeful strides, fully intending to drown his sorrows in alcohol and the warm arms of a stranger. 

It’s never enough to truly forget, but it’s all he can do. 

***

The playground is quiet at night. It’s peaceful, in a way, to exist in the tranquility of a place that’s usually so loud and chaotic. It’s also deceiving how a place that harbors such innocence was also the place of such violence just a couple weeks ago.

Callum sits on the tire swing and stares aimlessly out at the square. He’s much too big for it; his feet are resting flat on the ground. But it’s a good place to sit and think, something he’s been doing too much of as of late. 

With a slow hand, Callum brings his beer bottle to his lips and takes another drink. It’s his third? fourth? of the night, but none of them have done the job. He wanted to just forget about everything for a while, but he only feels loose around the edges, not numb like he had hoped for. 

It’s been a brutal week. All his fellow officers are treating him strangely, giving him odd looks and keeping out of his way. Embarrassment has been a steady burning flame inside Callum; he knows they see the way he walks with a limp now. He doesn’t want their pity, or their sympathy. He just wants things to go back to the way they were. 

But as much as Callum wishes for normalcy, he knows he can never truly obtain it. This is his new normal, gunshot wound and all. The doctor recommended physical therapy to help strengthen his muscles and aid his recovery, but the therapist he recommended is expensive, much more than Callum can afford. So he declined, even though he knows how much it would help him. 

Life seems to have no shortage of bad breaks for Callum. Every time he finally finds a purpose, it gets ripped away from him. First it was his place in the army and his abdomen injury, and now it’s his police career and this leg wound. Jack is still letting him continue the investigation into the Mitchell mob, but even he’s treating Callum differently, like he’s some sort of fragile sculpture that would shatter at the slightest touch.

And that’s been the hardest part of all. The realization that maybe he isn’t the hero that he tries his hardest to be. Maybe he’s been a fragile, broken thing for all his life, and he’s only just now fully accepting that.

And he hates himself for it.

Callum grips the neck of the bottle tightly in his fist, fingers turning white against the green glass. He slowly raises it in the air above his leg, his hand trembling as he hesitates.

_ Weak. Useless. Worthless. _

The words echo in his ears, whispered by the nasty inner voice that never seems to let him rest. In that moment, wrapped in the darkness of the night, it’s all he can hear.

Callum brings the bottle down hard on his leg, directly on his wound.

The pain is immediate, a sharp stab that makes him wince. But it’s not enough. Gritting his teeth, he raises the bottle and brings it down again, harder this time. The bottle glances off the curve of his thigh, and he curses. He can’t even hurt himself properly.

He slams the bottle down again, and with this blow, a splotch of blood seeps through the fabric of his jeans. The wound in his thigh is burning now, sending throbs of pain through the rest of his leg.

Tears sting Callum’s eyes as he hits his leg repeatedly, the blows quickening as desperation bubbles up in him like poison. It hurts, but in a twisted way, it feels good. At least he’s feeling something after feeling like he’s been walking around in a dream with no idea who he even is anymore.

Finally, Callum can’t take it anymore, and he stops with a pained cry. His leg burns with an intense pain that quickens the rise of tears in his eyes, and he soon feels them upon his cheeks. He lets out a slow, shaky breath, watching his breath hang in the night air for a few moments before it disappears. 

That’s how Callum feels. Like mist in the night air, seemingly solid and present for a few fleeting seconds, then disappearing into nothing once more.

Across the street, a pair of men step out into the cold night air. Ben stumbles through the back entrance of the bar, laughing as his companion practically drags him along by their linked hands. He’s a tall, handsome bloke named Jake with blue eyes that glitter with excitement. It’s another face that Ben will forget by the morning, but he’s not in it for the memories. He wants to live in the moment, with a warm body pressed against his own and a strong pair of hands exploring his skin.

Jake crowds Ben up against the brick wall and kisses him hard. Smiling into the kiss, Ben reaches for his belt, fingers fumbling to undo it.

“No, let me.” Jake breaks the contact of their lips to say that, and then he undoes his belt before reaching for Ben’s.

“Such a gentleman,” Ben murmurs, and then he cups the back of Jake’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss. They continue like that for a few moments, fingers brushing against each other’s cheeks, before Jake pulls away from Ben’s mouth to press searing kisses to his neck.

Ben tilts his chin up to give Jake better access. Panting, he gazes across the empty street with a faint smile on his face, one that drops once he notices a lone figure at the playground. 

Jake’s mouth works along the underside of Ben’s jaw, and he cranes his neck around the contact to get a better look. 

With a jolt of surprise, Ben realizes that it’s Callum. What the hell could he be doing this late at night?

Jake’s hands are reaching for the waistband of Ben’s jeans, and he doesn’t even register the contact until Jake’s hands slip past his pants and into his underwear.

“Oi!” Ben shouts. The sly grin on Jake’s faces means he takes it as encouragement. Closing his eyes tightly, Ben allows Jake to have his way for a few blissful moments, but then it has to stop. He can’t shake off the curiosity he feels regarding Callum, and he wants to figure out what’s going on.

“Alright!” Ben puts his hands on Jake’s chest and pushes him away. Jake’s eyes dart up and down his form, confusion evident in the furrowing of his brows.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hurriedly releasing his hold on Ben. “You were interested a couple seconds ago!”

Ben shrugs as he zips and buttons his jeans. “Well, now I’m not. Sorry to disappoint.”

Scoffing, Jake shakes his head. “Thanks for nothing.”

  
  
Ben rolls his eyes and flippantly waves his hand. “Fuck off, mate. You ain’t worth the hassle.”

Jake shoots one last nasty look at Ben before turning around and stalking off into the night. Ben watches his receding form with a flicker of regret in his chest, allowing himself a moment to mourn the loss of what looked like a promising hookup. Then he fastens his belt, straightens his jacket, and starts walking to the playground.

Callum feels sick to his stomach as he looks down at his handiwork. The patch of blood on his jeans is slowly growing, and he knows he probably tore his stitches. He can try to walk somewhere, but it’s only going to hurt him more.

“Bit big for the swing, aren’t ya?”

Callum jerks his head up to see Ben strolling over. Anger flares up in him instantly, but he tries to tamp it down. He’s in no state to have a go.

“What are you doing here?” Callum snaps, voice terse and accusatory.

Ben stops in front of Callum and shrugs. “Public playground. It ain’t illegal for me to be here.”

“You know what I mean,” Callum says. “Ain’t you got business to take care of?”

Ben tilts his head at the bitterness in Callum’s voice. “Well, I did have a hot date lined up for the night—” He pauses to flash a smirk at Callum. “Date being the polite term, of course.”

“Of course,” Callum repeats, voice slipping into mocking tones. “So what’re you doing here?”

Ben stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and shrugs. “I saw you over here all by your lonesome. I just wanted to check up on my favorite copper.”

Callum snorts and raises his beer bottle to his lips to take a swig. “Right.”

“Why, Callum!” Ben feigns offense as he presses a hand to his chest. “I don’t send flowers to just anyone, you know!”

Callum only shakes his head. 

Ben takes in the nearly empty bottle clenched in Callum’s fist and the slight droop of his eyelids. 

“Are you drunk?” He asks, eyebrows narrowing at the sight.

Callum’s eyes flick and up and down Ben’s form once before he raises the bottle to his lips again, almost defying Ben. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Ben replies immediately. “I just don’t think you’d like waking up in the morning with a killer hangover and some kid laughing in your face.”

Callum scoffs. “I wasn’t going to sleep here. I’m not an idiot.”

Ben looks Callum over again, this time searching for anything out of place. His eyes widen once they fall on the large patch of blood staining his jeans.

“I dunno.” Ben scratches at his stubble. “Bottling the leg you got shot in seems pretty idiotic to me. You’re bleeding, Callum.”

“Funny enough, I figured that much out for myself,” Callum replies bitterly. 

“Look,” Ben says flatly, “You’re not an idiot. So why are you doing something so stupid?”

With one final swig, Callum finishes the beer and tosses the empty bottle aside. He slowly rises to his feet, wincing as he puts weight on his bad leg. 

“Surely you’ve got better things to do,” he says. “Clients to rip off? Drugs to sell? Innocent lives to take?”

The booze is heavy on Callum’s breath, liquid courage loosening his tongue and letting him spew hateful words in Ben’s face.

“You don’t know a damn thing about what I do,” Ben replies, his voice level and calm. 

Callum snorts. “I’ve seen your world. I know exactly what it is that you  _ do.” _

“You ain’t seen nothing.”

The pair of them are standing a few feet apart, shoulders squared and gazes locked. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. Callum is teetering on the edge of testing the limits of Ben’s patience, and for his sake, Ben hopes he stops.

Callum shifts his weight to his good leg, wincing as he does. “I’ve seen enough.”

“So what? You read a couple of police files and see one business deal, and suddenly you’re an expert?” Ben shakes his head. “And you ain’t even been a copper for that long. Not even four years, am I right?”

Callum’s eyes widen a bit, but it’s the only indication he gives that shows he’s surprised by what Ben said.

Ben laughs, and the sound echoes a bit in the otherwise near silence. “Oh, come on. You lot aren’t invincible. I can get information on you with a snap of my fingers.”

“Listen, I—”

“You haven’t got the foggiest idea,” Ben interrupts, voice firm, “About my world and how it operates. How  _ I  _ operate.”

A huff of a laugh pushes past Callum’s lips. “Sure I do. Waiting for dear old dad to pop his clogs so you can take it all. Or…” He lowers his head a few inches to put it on level with Ben’s.

“Maybe you’re already planning a… shall we say…” Callum wiggles his fingers in the air and grins wickedly. “Preemptive death?”

Ben grabs Callum by the lapels of his jacket and crowds him up against the support post of the tire swings. Callum’s back strikes the wooden pole with a thud, and he grunts.

“Watch it, baby copper.” Ben’s voice is low and dangerously soft. “Let’s not go throwing around accusations.”

Callum holds onto Ben’s wrists loosely as he stares into Ben’s eyes. They’re in the same situation again, with Callum helpless to defend himself against Ben, who has the upper hand. 

“I would never kill my father,” Ben whispers. “Never. So I suggest you get rid of that stupid little idea and stop acting like you understand things you never can.”

For all Ben’s intensity and sureness, there’s an undeniable sense of unease about him. Callum can see it in his eyes, the slightest flicker of pain that hints he’s not being as truthful as he would like to appear.

Ben may say he’ll never harm his father, but Callum knows that he can’t also say he’s never at least thought about it.

Slowly, Ben drops his hands off Callum’s body. He takes a few steps back to put distance between them, suddenly needing space to breathe. Just like back in his father’s office, the air seems charged with electricity that surges for him. But this is different. That time with Phil felt constricting, entrapping, like a boa slowly tightening around his neck and cutting off his airflow. Here, with Callum, the energy is bright and lively, like curiosity solidified into something tangible and real.

It’s a one in a million chance that Ben and Callum would see each other tonight. But they’ve come crashing together again just like the night they met, draped in the shadows of the night and burning with the desire to learn more, to travel past their copper and mobster labels and truly  _ see  _ each other. 

It’s a waiting game to see who exposes a gap in their armor first.

Finally, Callum breaks the silence.

“You’re an asshole.”

It’s a cheap shot, one that Ben shouldn’t react to, but who would he be if he didn’t, so he steps forward and slaps Callum across the face. It’s a grazing blow that barely touches him, but Callum reels back like he’s been punched.

“You bastard!” 

Callum throws a slow, misguided punch at Ben and nearly falls over. Ben easily dodges his fist with a sidestep, then grabs Callum’s extended arm and pins it behind his back.

Shouting in pain, Callum can do nothing but struggle. He’s helpless in his inebriated state as he fights weakly against Ben’s strong hold.

Ben wrenches Callum’s arm back, arching his back and involuntarily tugging his head up to the sky with the force.

“A bum leg is one thing,” Ben hisses in Callum’s ear, “But do you really want a broken arm too?”

Callum shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you in any position to test me right now?” Ben snaps. 

“Fuck you,” Callum rasps. 

With an irritated huff of breath, Ben releases Callum. He stumbles forward a few steps and puts one hand on the back of his bad leg to steady himself.

“What’s this really about, Callum?” Ben shouts, his patience worn out completely. “Stop all the drama and tell me what’s going on.”

Callum slowly turns around to face Ben. His eyebrows are pinched together, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks deeply upset, and it’s obvious he’s hurting.

When Callum doesn’t say anything, Ben sighs and tries again. “Look. I get it, alright? You’re injured, and you’re upset that you can’t do your job. Trust me, I’ve been there myself.”

Nodding slowly, Callum’s gaze drops to his leg and stays there for a few moments before rising to look at Ben again. “And who’s fault is that?”

“I didn’t shoot you,” Ben says slowly, enunciating each word.

“I wish you had,” Callum whispers. 

Ben’s lips part in surprise. “What?” 

“Everything would be so much easier.” Callum draws in a shaky breath in a futile attempt to calm himself. Emotion floods through him like waves crashing on the shore, pummeling him with unrelenting force. His eyes burn with the telltale sting of oncoming tears, and he feels powerless to hold them back. He’s so tired of playing the role of the hero, a label that’s been forcibly placed on him and stuck like glue.

“I-I know what I’m supposed to do,” Callum continues, stuttering across his words as a lump rises in his throat. “I’m a police officer. I help people, and now…” He looks down at his leg, eyes lingering on the patch of blood. “And now I can’t.”

Ben swallows hard. He knows what it’s like to feel useless, to feel like the world has turned its back on you in your time of greatest need. 

“And you’re supposed to be my enemy!” Callum gestures wildly at Ben, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m the cop and you’re the robber! It’s supposed to be so easy, but it’s not! You’ve made it nothing but difficult!”

“How have I done that?” Ben asks softly.

Callum fists his hands in his hair. “Everything!” He cries. “Saving my life! Giving me flowers! You’re not supposed to do that!”

“What did you want me to do?”

“You were supposed to leave me!” Callum shouts, and Ben jumps a little at the outburst. “So then I would have no doubt in my mind that you are the awful criminal I’ve read about!”

Ben searches for the right thing to say, but words fail him. 

“Why can’t you just let me hate you?” Callum’s voice is a broken little whisper, pleading for an answer to the question that plagues his every waking hour. 

Ben’s heart is made of stone, hardened by years of suffering and heartbreak. It yields to nothing or no one.

But in that moment, he feels it break just a little.   
  


“Just let me hate you!” Callum cries. He ducks his head as he feels tears fall on his cheeks. He doesn’t want Ben to see him crying, not after the vulnerability he’s shown. 

Ben hesitates a few moments, and then he takes a step forward to cup the side of Callum’s face in his hand. Callum slowly raises his head to look at him, and Ben can hear his unsteady breathing in their closeness. 

With the gentlest of touches, Ben sweeps his thumb across Callum’s cheek and wipes away the tears that rests there.

“I’m sorry,” Ben murmurs. A simple apology isn’t nearly enough. But it’s all Ben can say.

“But you will get through this, okay?” 

Callum looks up at Ben with reddened, teary eyes, his lower lip trembling.

“I want to help you, in any way I can,” Ben says quietly. “And I mean that.”

Callum feels like he’s being pulled apart. His military and police instincts scream at him to retreat or eliminate the enemy. Ben is the enemy; everything he stands for is in direct violation of Callum’s beliefs. 

Callum lives in the light, where justice reigns above all and no terrible action goes unpunished. Ben lives in the shadows, where you can get away with anything, no matter how terrible. 

So why is Ben willingly stepping into the light to repeatedly offer Callum help? Either he’s doing it because he needs Callum to serve his own interests, or he’s a decent person who’s trying to help out of his own good nature.

It’s a question that Callum can’t definitively answer, and he refuses to let his guard down.

Callum takes a step back from Ben and away from his touch. Ben’s hand hangs in the air for a few moments before falling loosely to his side.

“I don’t want your help,” Callum whispers. He sniffs loudly and quickly scrubs at his cheeks with the back of his hand to wipe the tears away.

“Besides, don’t you think you’ve done enough?”   
  
The question leaves Ben reeling, and he has no idea what the inflection means. He saved Callum’s life and gave him flowers, so does that clear him of any obligations? Or has his mere existence and his association with the man who shot Callum already done sufficient damage?

“You don’t have to want my help,” Ben says. “But you need it. So take it.”

All the pent-up tension in Callum finally releases, and he can’t hold himself up anymore. He falls to his knees with a gasp of breath, wincing as his wound throbs in pain. He’s barely been holding himself together, and the exhaustion of the effort finally catches up to him. He just needs someone to lean on, and it looks like that’s going to be Ben.

Ben kneels at Callum’s side and looks at the blood staining his jeans. He needs medical attention, and there’s no way he can get it on his own.

“Come here.”

Ben slips one arm around Callum’s waist, hand pressing to his hip securely. He gently takes Callum’s arm and wraps it around his shoulders, then holds Callum’s wrist to keep it in place.

“Come on, up you go.” 

Slowly and carefully, Ben helps Callum to his feet. A tiny gasp escapes Callum as he stands on his feet again and puts weight back on his bad leg. 

“Lean on me, it’s okay,” Ben says, his voice soft. He catches Callum’s eye and sends him a sly grin. “You ain’t that heavy.”

Callum hesitates, but as much as he hates to admit it, he can’t hold himself up on his own. He leans on Ben heavily, grateful for the support.

Neither can find the strength to look away from each other. Something passes between their gazes as Callum looks up at Ben with an unguarded expression. They don’t speak as the moment stretches into a minute, and they both seem to travel hundreds of miles even though their feet remain firmly planted on the ground.

The gentleness of the trust in Callum’s face wipes the grin off Ben’s face. “I’ve got you,” he says, and Callum knows he means it. He can sense it in the inexplicable sense of safety he feels with Ben’s strong arm around him, steadying him.

Callum is so tired of hiding. But for the first time in his life, maybe he doesn’t have to anymore. As insane and illogical as it is, he’s never felt more seen than when he’s with Ben. There’s no point in putting up walls when Ben can see right through them.

They walk slowly at Callum’s pace as he gingerly takes one step after another. It’s going to take a while to get anywhere, but Ben doesn’t mind.

He’s willing to give Callum all the time in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3
> 
> twitter - @spielsonian  
> tumblr - maryatthecomiccon


	5. just maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsettled by the guilt he feels over Callum, Ben turns to old habits. Callum struggles to find a balance between his investigation and his role in Ben's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to hear the song ben listens to this chapter, find it [here](https://youtu.be/gnN_AmvYDGY)

Early mornings at the police station are quiet. Most people don’t arrive until around eight in the morning, which still lies over an hour away. The hallways are silent in the absence of hurried footsteps, scattered conversations, and police radios going off. 

Except for the front desk receptionist getting an early jump on some paperwork, Callum has the station to himself. He’s cooped up in his office, sitting back in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk, staring aimlessly at the wall. Logically, there’s plenty of work he could start on, but he can’t find the energy to do anything.

Last night had been mentally and physically draining. His plan to drink himself into a daze had been going well, until Ben appeared out of nowhere and broke through the fog clouding his mind. Stepping out from the shadows of the night like he lived in them, sharp wit quick on his tongue and arresting eyes that looked right through Callum and saw what he was doing. 

The alcohol brought all of Callum’s emotions rushing to the surface, and it was all too easy to speak his mind without thinking about it. Harsh words fell off his lips like scattered bullet fire, aiming to wound Ben, but they didn’t seem to have an impact. Ben seemed exasperated at the futile attempt, easily dodging Callum’s verbal and physical blows. Still, when Callum pushed him far enough, his cool exterior melted a bit. The tiniest bit of pride glowed in Callum once he saw that the infamous Ben Mitchell wasn’t invincible. Harder to get to than most people, yes, but it just took pressing the right buttons. And that seemed like anything having to do with the Mitchell name and his father. Lesson learned; if he wants to stay in Ben’s good graces, he needs to be more careful.

Callum drags a hand down his face. He’s tired after getting barely any sleep last night. Even though Ben insisted they should go to the hospital, Callum refused, saying he had bandages back at his flat. Ben clearly didn’t agree but also didn’t argue against Callum’s wishes, and he held Callum up the entire walk back. He had been surprisingly careful, hands gentle but firm on Callum’s waist and wrist, lending him strength and a strong body to lean on. He seemed keen on helping Callum up to his flat as well, but that’s where Callum drew the line. It made him nervous to think about Ben knowing where he lives and what his flat looks like. Ben had burst into Callum’s life and now seemed content to stay, so there has to be a few boundaries. The flat itself isn’t much, nothing more than mismatched furniture crammed in the confines of pink walls and loud floral wallpaper, but it’s home, and Ben has no place there. 

Once Callum was alone and safely inside his flat, any control he had left snapped, and he fully broke down into tears. Not knowing who else to turn to, he’d called Whitney, apologizing profusely for the lateness of the hour but begging for her help. When she arrived a short while later, she was too preoccupied with bandaging his wound to ask how he’d hurt himself or to notice the booze on his breath. She’d stayed with him that night, kissing his cheeks and calming him down until he fell into a restless sleep.

Callum isn’t sure what propelled him out of bed so early this morning. What made him slip out of Whitney’s arms and whisper hushed excuses about a case he needed to compile data for. She was a little disgruntled that he was leaving so abruptly, especially after the state he’d been in last night. But he felt suffocated, trapped by her arms that were nothing but loving. In the heat of the moment, with his leg throbbing in pain and his face streaked with tears, he needed Whitney so desperately. But once she stayed, that desperation faded into guilt that gnawed at him with the realization that he _didn’t_ need her. He merely wanted a shoulder to cry on and a pair of arms to hold him.

And with a jarring, slightly horrifying stroke of clarity, Callum realizes that he could easily have those things with someone else. Someone draped in a leather jacket with eyes like chips of the bluest sky and lips curved into a devilish smile. Someone who had been there for Callum when he needed it most, giving him help and support despite the volatile aura of hatred flickering between them.

Callum can’t break Whitney’s heart. He’s only heard vague mentions of her ex-boyfriends, dropped into conversation with a pained smile as she tried to make it a joke, but he could sense the true pain simmering beneath the surface. She deserves a man who loves her unconditionally with his whole heart, but with each passing day, that man looks less like him. 

Ever since the night he’d been shot, he’s been spiraling. 

Ben is to blame, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Callum’s cell phone vibrates on the desk, and the noise is loud in the relative silence of his office. He blinks a couple times to shake himself out of his daze. When he picks up the phone, his stomach drops once he reads the name. Swallowing hard, he opens the text.

_Ben M, 7:31AM: [Morning, sunshine. Take something for the headache I know you have]_

It amazes Callum how Ben can convey his trademark sarcasm through a text message. He’s drafting a snarky reply of his own when another text comes through.

_Ben M, 7:32AM: [Go easy on that leg. If you want to go to physical therapy or something, let me know. I’ll pay for it]_

Callum stares at the message for a few minutes. He’s surprised that Ben would so casually offer to pay for something as expensive as physical therapy. Maybe he feels guilty, or maybe he thinks throwing money at a problem will encourage Callum to continue to keep his mouth shut. It’s probably the latter.

_Callum, 7:35AM: [I can handle myself. And I don’t want your money]_

A new text from Ben comes in almost immediately after Callum presses send.

_Ben M, 7:35AM: [Yeah right. I practically dragged you home last night. And you should take it anyway]_

Callum types furiously, irritated now that Ben’s short-lived goodwill has run out.

_Callum, 7:36AM: [Trying to keep me from going to the police about your little play date?]_

He has to wait a little longer for Ben’s response this time.

_Ben, 7:39AM: [You're a copper, so wouldn’t you be going to yourself?]_

Callum makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. He presses the power button with his thumb and drops his phone back on the desk with a slight clatter. It’s unbelievable how easily Ben can irritate him, even through a text message. What little bit of kindness Ben exhibited last night surely seems gone. 

A knock on the door breaks Callum out of his thoughts.

“Come in!” He calls out, frowning as he wonders who could be here at this hour. 

The door opens and Jack steps into the office.

“Jack,” Callum says, quickly pulling his feet down so he can stand and greet his superior properly. “What’re you doing here so early?”

Jack closes the door behind him and flashes a smile at Callum. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Shrugging, Callum runs a hand across the back of his neck. “You know how it is. Couldn’t sleep last night. Figured I might try to get an early start on the day.”

Jack gestures for Callum to sit down, so he does. Jack looks at him carefully, eyes taking in his form like he’s looking for something out of place. 

“Are you alright?” Jack asks.

“Of course I am,” Callum replies automatically, not even thinking about the answer before it passes his lips.

Jack gives Callum an exasperated look. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“Who said I was lying?” Callum says, and he forces a laugh that comes out sounding nervous.

“Callum.”

Callum exhales heavily through his nose. “It’s just hard, Jack. My leg still hasn’t healed, and… I don’t like feeling so useless all the time.”

Jack nods slowly. “I understand… well, maybe I don’t,” he admits. “But I’m here if you need to talk, ay?”

Wringing his hands together, Callum nods once. The truth is on the tip of his tongue, and only fear prevents him from speaking it. He made a promise to Ben that he can’t break, not if he wants to keep his life. But he is the leading officer on the investigation into the mob, and he can’t withhold information from his superior.

“I need to tell you something.”

The statement comes out in a rush, and Callum’s stomach clenches, knowing he can’t go back.

Jack’s brows knit together. “You do?”

“I… haven’t been entirely honest with you about the night I was shot.”

Jack’s face is wiped clean with a blank look of surprise. “You what?”

Callum takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I don’t know who shot me. But I do know that they were meeting with someone, and that person saved my life.”

“You’ve been withholding evidence,” Jack says, his voice edged with anger. 

“I know, Jack, but I made him a promise not to tell anyone! That was our deal, and I would’ve died if I didn’t agree, but I’m in over my head and I don’t know what to do, and—”

“Calm down, Callum, it’s alright!” Jack interrupts Callum’s rambling and holds up a hand to silence him. He rises to his feet and walks around the desk to put a hand on Callum’s shoulder.

“I understand,” Jack says in a calm voice. “What matters is that you’re telling me now. Who did you see?”

Callum’s eyes flutter closed briefly as Ben’s face swims to the front of his mind. “Ben Mitchell.”

A war of emotions rages on Jack’s face for a moment, and then anger wins out. “Ben Mitchell?” He snaps, voice like a thunderclap.

“He must have been doing some mob business, and I was unlucky and walked up on them!” Callum replies quickly. “Whoever he was meeting was the person that shot me, and he saved me in exchange for my silence.”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s more than that. What does he want from you?”

“He…” Callum’s voice trails off, and he bites his lip.

“Damn it, Callum, I need to know!” Jack shouts, and he slams his hand on the desk with a loud bang. 

Jumping at the loud noise, Callum nods fervently. “He wants me to work for him.”

“Doing what, exactly?” 

Callum shrugs. “I don’t know yet, Jack, and that’s the truth. My guess is some sort of double agent.”

Jack doesn’t speak for a couple of minutes. Finally, he looks closely at Callum and asks, “He’ll kill you if you grass?”

Callum’s silence is answer enough.

“I’ll allow you to see this through,” Jack says. 

Stunned, Callum wonders if he heard correctly. “You _want_ me to be a double agent?”

“This is the best chance we’ve had in years at taking them down,” Jack replies. “And we have to take it. But, Callum…” Jack looks him directly in the eyes. “You have to be careful. I’ll keep it to myself, but you can’t let him know that I know.”

Callum nods. 

“He’s a Mitchell.” Jack’s eyes flash at the name. “And he will not hesitate to stab you in the back. Trust me.”

“I do, Jack,” Callum says. 

A moment of silence lingers between the two, heavy with the task that now sits on Callum’s shoulders. 

“Well…” Jack claps his hands together and stands up. “Get out of here for a bit and get yourself some breakfast. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

A smile cracks the firm line of Callum’s mouth. “Alright, I will. Thanks for everything, Jack.”

Jack lets him stand up and head for the door. As Callum turns to leave, only Jack’s parting words call him back.

“And Callum?”

Callum turns, eyebrow raised.

“About the Mitchell boy…” Jack pauses. “Don’t get too close.”

***

When the overhead lights are on and the dance floor sits empty, the club doesn’t feel the same. The absence of pounding music and swirling neon lights leaves the space dormant, like a slumbering beast waiting for the right moment to wake. Still, it’s peaceful, and Ben is thankful for the privacy.

Ben sits at a table near the back of the club, one that gives the occupant the perfect vantage point to see everything. His eyes lazily travel across the planes of his club, taking in the rich velvet curtains of the raised stage and the glittering chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. It’s the picture of wealth and decadence, as it should be. He had spared no expense, and it’s what the namesake of the club deserves; nothing less than perfection.

Raising the glass slowly to his lips, Ben kicks back the last few inches of scotch that remain. He only winces slightly as the alcohol slides hotly down his throat, but not enough to cause a burning sensation. He’s already had two others, and now the usually abrasive taste of scotch doesn’t even faze him.

Ben tries not to day drink, especially when he has work to do, but his demons got the better of him the second he stepped foot out of bed. The events of the previous night had put him through a series of emotions, each one washing the other away like waves on the shore, until an overwhelming sense of guilt won out. Like the brand of a red-hot poker, guilt has settled against Ben’s chest in a heavy weight, and nothing he does can ease the sensation. His foolproof method of drinking himself into a daze to cloud his mind has failed him, and deep down he knows that no number of drinks can fix how he’s feeling. 

The speakers are off, but music still plays, filtering quietly throughout the club from an old record player. Whilst scrounging around in the back room for the hidden bottle of his best scotch, Ben came across the record player. A soft smile grew on his face as he pulled it out and dusted it off, remembering how his mother had gifted it to him one year. She’d gotten him hooked on show tunes and the great jazz singers of the 1920s, and he’d begged for a player and a few records. Needless to say, he was a very happy kid once his mother placed the gifts in his arms.

Now, nearly two decades later, the record player miraculously still works like a charm. The record spinning slowly on its top is a compilation of hits by Frank Sinatra, one of Ben’s favorite singers. Growing up, he’d always liked to imagine himself as Sinatra. Singing to crowds of adoring fans, wining and dining with the rich and famous, and living life to the fullest on his terms. Phil had always disapproved of what he saw as delusions of grandeur, and whenever Ben tried to defend his interest, Phil had practically laughed him off. 

So maybe Sinatra’s mafia ties weren’t entirely proven. It sure didn’t keep Ben from dreaming about the kind of life he could make for himself, if he was smart.

And so far, the life Ben leads is everything he dreamed of. Money and power are abundant once you reach the top, and the Mitchells are the pinnacle of the criminal underworld in London. It’s as much of a place of privilege you can get amongst criminals, but it’s one that Ben is grateful for. He truly found himself after years of lacking purpose and direction in his life, and he’s able to look after his own and ensure they’re living a more than comfortable life. While it is a harsh and unforgiving lifestyle where one simple mistake can cost you your life, Ben has been playing the game long enough. He grew up learning the tricks of the trade while other boys his age were doing normal things. While his classmates fretted about homework, Ben was worrying about how to sniff out a spy and reload a gun in time to save his neck. 

But all that glitters is not gold, and only those in the mob know the truth. They alone see the violence and the bloodshed it wreaks, resulting in horrors that most people can’t even begin to comprehend. Lives are the most valuable form of currency, and it doesn’t matter who you hurt. All that ever matters is the next job, whatever the cost.

At this point, violence is like an extension of Ben’s very being, and he wields it as a weapon, aided by loaded guns and threats. Most times it’s the only way to get what you want, because when you get down to the nitty and gritty, most people will give up anything to keep their life. That knowledge is both exhilarating and terrifying, and Ben finds himself torn between the awe of his power and the fear of his capabilities. He can make someone cower before him on their knees, but he can also harm them with a squeeze of a trigger.

Ben doesn’t know how to stop. The mob is all he knows, and he’s uncertain if he can ever truly detach himself from it, not after years of training that have ingrained this life into the fabric of his soul. He was once content, but now he’s restless, living chaotically and hurtling towards a future he doesn’t quite understand. Throwing himself into his work, exhausting as it can be, is only a temporary distraction from the gaping, aching hole in Ben’s chest that he can never fill. Nothing is enough for him anymore, and he only continues to up the stakes of every situation he finds himself in. Taunting clients mercilessly when he meets them to collect. Waving a gun around with reckless abandon, sometimes disappearing into a dark alley and unloading a clip of bullets into the brick just to remind himself of his skills. Practically begging an opponent to hit him, thirsting for the smallest window of opportunity to get in a fight, like the pain of blows raining upon his face and body will somehow make him feel less numb. 

He’s like an addict, craving his work and the thrill of the chase like a fix, because there’s nothing quite like staring death in the face and defeating it, twisting it around, unleashing it on someone else.

Each day is one closer to the edge, and the days are strung together like that, closer and closer until Ben doesn’t know where the edge is anymore or whether he had passed it long ago. Another kill, another drink, another fuck; all meaningless decisions that do nothing to make him feel accomplished.

Like a recurring nightmare, where something desirable shines just out of reach. No matter how hard Ben stretches his arm out, fingers grazing the edges of the light, he can never fully hold it in his palm. 

All he can do is stare into the black abyss and hope that one day it doesn’t consume him.

Ben grasps the neck of the bottle tightly in his fist to suppress his unsteady fingers. As he pours himself another drink, a fresh wave of guilt washes over him. Here he is, sitting in his club and trying to drown his sorrows, when he should be at home with his family. He rubs at his tired eyes before knocking back the drink with ease before his common sense can rise up through the haze of alcohol. 

He glances away from the empty glass and instead focuses on the surface of the table, perfectly polished mahogany, untouched except for one spot. Ben’s eyes fall on the small engraving in the wood, done by a pocket knife and a steady hand. He gently touches his fingertips to it and feels the indent underneath his skin:

_P + B_

Ben shuts his eyes against the memory that forces its way to the front of his mind. He desperately pushes away the thoughts of a quiet night, tucked up in this very booth with someone else, his eyes sparkling in the light of the chandeliers as he pulled out his knife and went to work. Ben can still hear the clink of glasses on wood and the way he laughed once he saw his companion’s handiwork. 

Ben snaps his eyes wide open and slams his fist on the table. It’s a little outburst that surprises him, but he can’t help it. Those damned memories always sneak up on him despite his most valiant efforts, and once they take hold, he has to live through them for a brief while, until he can’t take it anymore.

There’s a brief pause as one song ends and another begins, and the quiet crackle of the needle on the record is comforting.

A soft piano melody comes in, and then Sinatra’s voice croons out into the club.

_Drinkin’ again and thinkin’ of when, when you loved me._

A soft huff of a laugh escapes Ben’s lips. He knows the record by heart, and this particular track is near the end. He hadn’t realized how much time has passed since he first put the needle to the ebony surface. The song is too fitting for the moment, and it hurts. 

_I'm havin' a few and wishin' that you were here._

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Ben calls out, and his voice echoes in the empty space. He refills his glass and raises it in a silent toast.

“To you…” Ben's voice trails off and he hesitates. His tongue darts out to lick his dry lips once as he tries to keep his composure.

“Whenever you are,” he finishes, voice thick with emotion. He clears his throat and downs the drink in one go, then slams the empty glass on the table.

Ben looks around him, focusing on no point in particular. He’s searching for something he’ll never find, but he can never find it in himself to stop trying.

“I miss you so much,” he whispers. 

The only response is Frank’s silver tones in the otherwise complete silence.

Heaving a sigh, Ben pulls out his phone to check his messages. He clicks on Callum’s name to see he’s been left on read. 

Ben snorts. He supposes he deserves it; he was being pretty sassy. It’s just so easy to get Callum riled up and flustered with a few sarcastic remarks and an innuendo here, a flirtatious touch there. 

_It’s always that same old story._

The self-confident grin fades from Ben’s face. The lyrics echo in his ears, and realization strikes him like a slap across the face.

He’s doing it all over again with Callum. Dragging an innocent, naive man into a world of corruption and deceit, purely because he wanted to. 

Guilt squeezes the air from Ben’s lungs when he thinks about Callum. The man is destroyed by pain that Ben has inflicted. He didn’t shoot Callum, but he might as well have, with the way Callum looks at him with such disdain. And for some inexplicable reason, Ben cares. It bothers him to see Callum so broken down, hurting so deeply. 

He shouldn’t care. Callum is supposed to be another tool for him to use and break and then toss aside. Ben will have his fun, stringing Callum along as a pawn in his game, forcing him to fulfill his wishes. But he can’t shake the unsettling feeling that it won’t bring him the joy he expects. 

Callum is different, and Ben can’t pin down exactly why he is. Maybe it’s his refusal to let Ben walk all over him, or the curiosity sparkling in his eyes when he looks at Ben, like he sees more than just a mobster, but an actual person hidden deep underneath the facade. 

For the first time in a long time, maybe Callum is the one person that Ben can truly be himself around. 

Ben rubs at his tired eyes. Coming to his club was a stupid mistake, and now he’s paying for it. He didn’t expect to become swept away in memories and regret. Serves him right for sitting at that table and drinking like it would make him forget. He hates how fragile he feels, like he could break at the slightest touch. 

“What the fuck is happening to me?” Ben thinks aloud, his voice barely a whisper.

_After the kicks there’s little old mixed-up me._

Ben snorts. “Thanks, Frank.”

He runs his fingers across the engraving in the table one last time before collecting his coat and walking out of the club, leaving it all behind. 

***

_Don’t get too close._

Jack’s parting words linger in Callum’s head long after he left the police station. Alone at a corner table in the cafe, he allows himself to think, forehead pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

Keeping his distance from Ben isn’t the problem— Callum can’t stand him, and he doesn’t trust the man as far as he can throw him. 

It was everything else that made Ben seem like more than just a cold-blooded criminal. The quirk of mischief that’s always quick to spring to his lips, the smirk that softens into something more genuine. Buying flowers and checking up on him, even if the texts were sarcastic in nature.

Ben is a walking contradiction. Each time Callum thinks he has a grasp on Ben’s character, he does something that’s a total surprise. There’s no walking away from him, not after what they’ve been through. 

_Don’t get too close._

Callum wonders if it’s already too late for that.

The bell dings as the door opens and someone walks in. When Callum glances up, his eyes land on the back of a man at the counter. There’s something familiar about the set of his shoulders and the way he holds himself, but Callum can’t put his finger on it.

Shrugging, Callum returns his attention to his breakfast.

At the counter, Ben smiles as his mother comes out to greet him. “Morning, Mum.”

Kathy’s smile fades into a look of concern as she looks at her son. “Have you been drinking? I can smell it on you!”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Just a touch, Mum, alright? Rough night.”

Kathy gives him a stern look but drops the matter. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.” He hands his mother a thick roll of bills.

“Ben!” Kathy exclaims. 

Laughing, Ben folds her hands around the money. “Keep it, Mum. You deserve it.”

Kathy pats her son’s cheek before going to fix his food.

Ben turns around right as Callum looks up, and their eyes meet across the cafe. Ben winks, and Callum groans, knowing they’ll have to talk now.

Once Ben has his food, he walks over and drops into the empty seat across from Callum with a grin. 

Callum drinks Ben in, eyes flickering across the white polo shirt and dark green coat of his extremely put-together appearance. But there’s something off about him. The smile on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are ringed with dark circles. He looks exhausted, and there’s a hint of sadness lingering around him like a stormcloud.

“You alright?” Ben asks. Callum looks tired, as is expected. Last night was quite the ordeal for him.

Callum nods slowly. “As good as I can be, I guess.”

“No thanks to me,” Ben remarks. 

“You weren’t the one bottling my leg,” Callum says with a little self-deprecating laugh. “You held me up, helped me back to my flat.”

Ben takes a sip of his coffee to avoid answering immediately. “That’s about the only good thing I’ve done for you.”

“That’s not true,” Callum protests, his voice gentle. “You saved my life.”  
  
Ben studies him for a long time, arresting eyes seeing right through him. “You don’t need to repay me,” he says at last. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know,” Callum replies. “But I’m grateful all the same.”

Ben’s mouth twists. “But—”

“Just, let me thank you,” Callum interrupts, absently wondering why this is so important to him. “Please.”

They look at each other, gazes lingering a second too long. It wasn’t _warmth,_ exactly, in that shared look— more like a silent yielding, a wordless understanding. 

“You’re welcome,” Ben says quietly. 

Callum hesitantly reaches his hand across the table to place it on top of Ben’s. Ben glances down at the contact but doesn’t pull away.

“Bit tame,” Ben remarks with a grin once he looks up and meets Callum’s gaze again. Underneath the table, he wiggles his right foot out of his boot and presses his sock-clad foot to Callum’s calf.

Callum inhales sharply, and he jerks his hand away from Ben, looking scandalized. 

Ben immediately feels bad, and he misses the warm weight of Callum’s hand atop his own. He never ceases to impress himself with how he can take every good thing in his life, no matter how small, and ruin it.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Ben says, his words disjointed as he shakes his head. He pulls his foot away and puts it back in his boot. “The whole heart-of-gold thing you’ve got going on just throws me off.”

Callum looks at Ben for a few minutes before speaking again. “You don’t have to do that around me, you know.”

  
Ben pulls an exaggerated frown. “I thought you liked my flirting!”

“That’s not what I meant,” Callum says, but the hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Look, we’re partners, right? We’ve gotta try to be honest with each other.”

“What does that have to do with me flirting?” Ben teases, but he’s stalling. He knows what Callum means, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Drop the act and just be yourself,” Callum says.

Ben exhales heavily. “Don’t know if I can do that, mate.”

“Can you at least try?” Callum asks in a quiet voice. His eyes silently plead with Ben, and Ben can’t help but listen. He doesn’t let his guard down with anyone except for the people he holds most dear, and Callum is nowhere near that group. But Callum does have a point; they can’t work together if Ben is so distant all the time.

“I guess I can give it a go,” Ben replies.

A tiny bit of hope shines on Callum’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ben tilts his head at Callum and nods. “For you, and you only. But—” Ben points an accusatory finger at Callum. “Don’t expect puppies and rainbows from me.”

Callum holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “I wouldn’t. Besides, where’s the fun in that?”

“So you do like a bad boy,” Ben teases. Callum rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Well, in light of this new phase in our partnership, I say we should celebrate!” Ben declares. “Let’s do something together.”

One eyebrow raises on Callum’s forehead. “Like what?”

“A night at my club,” Ben replies with a smile. “Tomorrow. You can come as my guest.”

Callum shifts in his chair. “I dunno. I’m not really a club person.”

  
  
“That’s because you haven’t been to _my_ club,” Ben says. “Come on, it’ll be fun! I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Callum looks at Ben intently. He looks properly happy for the first time since he sat down at the table, and Callum can’t bring himself to ruin that. He likes the side of Ben that unfortunately only makes rare appearances, in the form of flowers and gentle smiles that last a few precious seconds. 

Trusting Ben is completely out of the question, but if Ben is serious about being more open around Callum, he has to take advantage of that. He needs Ben to believe in him if he’s to take Ben down, but it’s more than that. He wants to know the Ben that the world doesn’t see, the one that saved his life and continues to help, even though there’s no reason to.

“Alright,” Callum agrees. “I’ll go.”

Ben smiles, and excitement shines in his eyes. “So we have a deal?” He extends his hand.

Callum takes it and gives it a shake.

“Looks like we do.”

Ben lowers their linked hands to the table and weaves their fingers together a bit. Callum lets him do it, and he dares to rub his thumb across the back of Ben’s hand. It’s a silent truce, one that speaks to the beginnings of something more than angry words and dark nights. 

Eventually, they break contact so they can return to eating their breakfast, but the feeling lingers long after. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3
> 
> twitter - @spielsonian  
> tumblr - @maryatthecomiccon


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